Two Roads
by CSI Clue
Summary: An AU for the Mike Keppler Story arc. Spoilers for Sweet Jane, Redrum, Meet Market and Law of Gravity. Romance!
1. Chapter 1

Two Roads

_A/N: This story is an alternative to the Mike Keppler story arc, and contains spoilers for Sweet Jane, Redrum, Meet Market and Law of Gravity. As for the title, I felt that Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken is more than appropriate as a representation for this AU. My greatest good fortune in this fandom is to have VR Trakowski as a beta; she is half-editor, half-muse and all compassionate to my desire to see everybody with a happy ending!_

CATHERINE

He wasn't like anybody I'd worked with before; that's for sure. I mean I've seen my share of guys—maybe MORE than my share, and in a town like Vegas you get all types. Boys, playboys, macho men, flaming flamboyant fellahs, broody aesthetes; you name a breed; we've got it here in spades.

But Mike was different. First of all, there was the suit. Yes, we have guys who wear suits in Vegas, but typically they're either full dress affairs with designer labels, or off-the rack duds for the conventioneer or businessman. Two ends of the spectrum right there, and a lot in between as well. I like suits for the most part; the right one can do a lot for a guy. Like Jim Brass. Even Sam and Eddie could carry them off when they had to.

Mike's suit though, was different. Pure working class, specifically East Coast. Brooks Brothers; dark enough for Fed, and not bad, but no great shakes either. When I first saw him, I thought 'Accountant' before I ever thought 'CSI', that's for sure. I was betting the tie was a clip-on too, but it turned out it wasn't, thank God. I don't know if I could have worked with anyone who wore a clip-on, to be honest; I mean there's geek and there's GEEK . . .

Anyway, he was tall and so damned quiet that it took me a while to get used to his style. See, Nick's never quiet, and Greg's pretty much a chatterbox at every scene. Sara's the sort of like Grissom; she concentrates and summarizes as she works, which is good. I never got the hang of Sofia talking things through, but I could see how it worked for her. Warrick says what needs to be said, and I know I can be pretty focused myself when I get in the mode. Different people, different styles; que sera, sera. But Mike Keppler redefined 'intense' for me. He looked at things as if he was memorizing them—which he probably was—and the entire time he was so quiet I wondered if he was another corpse on the scene, or I'd just lose track of him altogether.

Then he'd make some comment in that flat baritone of his and I'd remember he was around. I've always been a sucker for low voices, and Mike's was nice; flat East Coast accent which sounded a little odd on the ear until you got used to it. It was soothing though, and given some of the scenes we took in, that was sort of comforting.

He wasn't bad-looking as guys go, either: about six three, dark hair, pointed nose and the thickest, fullest eyelashes I'd ever seen on a man. It was completely unfair that Mother Nature would give him those when so many of us women were stuck filling ours out with mascara, but there you have it. Big shoulders, sort of lanky, but not comfortably coordinated like Warrick; efficient, not neccessarily graceful.

He wasn't wearing a wedding ring either, and from what I heard about his previous work I figured Mike Keppler wasn't the kind to stay put for very long. Being a CSI is a tough job, and the burnout/turnover rate gets higher all the time. Case in point: Grissom. I couldn't blame the guy for needing a sabbatical, even if it came at a crappy time, and although I probably could have been nicer about him going, I'm glad he came back.

Anyway, Mike was with me in the interim, and pretty gracious about it, considering we had about equal seniority. He was the new guy, sure, but he also had two years more experience, so I appreciated that he didn't just barge in and try to tell me how to run my shift. We handled the Doctor Dave case first out, and that one had me gritting my teeth, literally. Big jolly creepy as hell dentist, ugh! And all those poor girls who'd never get their names back . . . the sort of case that could sear into your heart if you let it.

Mike and I had lunch after that one, and I was pleased to see he was a meat and potatoes sort of guy. A little picky about his eggs, but he wasn't a dainty eater, and we got to chatting. He was easy to talk to, but hard to draw out.

And yeah, I noticed his shoe size. Ahem.

MIKE

Las Vegas is one of those odd places that makes more than one first impression. There's the tourist side, with all the lights and glitter, the stuff right off the postcards. Then there's the under layer of the people who actually live here; the regular joes who man the casinos and cash registers and mini-marts. I've seen the same people in cities all over the country, and they remind me a bit of worker ants; just doing the job, not getting in anybody's way.

Then, under them are the leftover people—the ones who end up as my cases a good percentage of the time. Victims, unfortunately—people with no further down to go except into the ground, usually in a rough pine box, three to a stack.

Three layers, the same three any sociologist will tell you stratify society in any major metropolis—it was good to see them. Gave me a sense of stability to know that even in a new town, the game was the same, even if the accents and hours were different.

The only sour note was that the first case had me looking at a dead girl not much older than her early twenties. Too young and too pretty to be dead; too close to the vest for me in a lot of ways. Another problem was that I was looking at a partner who had a fair bit of va-voom to her as well. I understand it's Vegas, but I didn't expect that the glamour would extend through the law enforcement ranks.

Catherine Willows introduced herself and got in a reprimand all in the space of the first few minutes. I respected that—professional I can deal with. I also liked it that she didn't ask me a lot of questions until we were back at the lab together. That gave me time to put myself into the case and deal with what we were looking at.

After we got rolling, I put her into my mental grid: five six maybe, at a good weight for the frame, a woman not only capable of taking care of herself, but also determined to do it. I pegged her as a divorcee most likely, and bet she didn't have a problem getting a date on a weekend.

Wrong on both counts there, as I later found out. Ah well--I never was much of a betting sort of guy, even in a town full of slot machines, and this time it was a matter of being wrong in a right sort of way. Catherine made my transition to Vegas a lot easier, and I appreciated the way she included me in the cases. She was sharp, too—good with trace, and on the ball when it came to follow-through.

She also knew politics; something I generally steered clear of, whatever city I was in. Ever since Trenton I've kept my nose clean, no matter what. Sometimes it was easy; sometimes hard. I took flak for not playing the game in a few jurisdictions, but my convictions were solid, despite the ever lingering presence of--

Anyway, as I said, Catherine made my transition smoother than usual, and considering all the ones I'd made in the last few years it was nice. A CSI at her rank could have made life hard for me, but she was pretty gracious about a lot of things. It was nice to pair up with someone who wasn't ten years younger, or ten years older, too. Somebody within my generation when it came to food, music and sports.

Someone who wore perfume.

CATHERINE

So Grissom was gone—for a while anyway--and we had Mike. It wasn't a bad exchange, but still, it was going to take some time for things to settle in. We tried, but honestly, the cases didn't help. Doctor Dave was creepy enough, but when the undersheriff was breathing down our necks about the Zamesca case and Mike suggested reverse forensics—terrible idea. SUCH a terrible idea. I kept pointing out that my guys were too good to be fooled, and Mike kept telling me we didn't have to fool them long, but honestly? I hated every minute of it.

I mean yeah, we caught Thomas, but I'll never really get over how furious Nick was about the whole thing—about how all of them were pretty pissed off. I don't blame them, even though I'd never get them to believe me.

Then we had that God-awful tissue harvesting case, and after that everything went to hell when that retired cop, Frank McCarty came to Vegas. Things unraveled pretty fast at that point, and even though Grissom was back, my whole focus was on what the hell was going on with Mike. I mean he was a basket case, and in hindsight it's easy to see why, but at the time I just wasn't putting together any of the clues. My liking him was getting in the way, plain and simple.

And then, oh God, the shooting. I know Mike shot Frank to keep the bastard from shooting me, but that little insight only came to me later, when I was finally piecing things together. Things that bothered me a lot—like an EMT pronouncing in the back of an ambulance.

Wrong. Just—wrong. Paramedics have the authority to pronounce, not EMTS. Mike had been down less than fifteen minutes, and the amount of blood wasn't significant. They hustled him out of there with sirens and lights—why, if he was dead? I let Grissom steer me away, and I know my equilibrium was way, waaaaay off for the rest of the night, but somewhere in the back of my head I felt the way my team had during the Zamesca case.

So the first chance I got I went to Desert Palms morgue. Just to check—just to see. If there's one thing this job has ingrained into me, it's that tangible proof equals closure. I touched Eddie's body before it went to the funeral home; I held the bullets that killed Sam—I'm the kind of person who just . . . needs . . . that final, tactile evidence.

So I go in, showed my badge to the right people, and nobody knew anything about Mike's body. I got the polite runaround from the admitting desk, and the not so polite runaround from the administration for a while, but what it boiled down to was that nobody seemed to have any idea where the remains of my esteemed colleague were.

My bullshit detection meter kept rising, along with my temper until finally I decided to pull a favor from Al and get him to talk to his counterpart in the hospital morgue. The doctor here, Collette Dulac let me in and showed me around and I saw that she genuinely didn't know anything about two bodies from a shooting. She had McCarty, but nobody else. I asked her to keep my visit quiet and headed upstairs.

When you're tired and wrung out and emotionally in the crapper, sometimes the best thing is to catch a nap on a hospital sofa. Nobody bothers you—they all assume you're waiting for someone—and generally people keep their voices down if they pass by. I let myself curl up in this little alcove up in the ICU waiting room and did just that, trying to let go of enough to let my brain put little bits in place.

I also just needed to be away from work for a while.

MIKE

I haven't had a spiritual belief system in a couple of decades, so the concept of returning from the dead is something I've only considered and dismissed from a medical point of view. It certainly wasn't the sort if event I ever thought I'd go through myself, so my return to consciousness if not life, was a little disconcerting.

I remembered being shot; that part was not fun at all, but after that, things are a little hazy. I know I shot Frank as well, and forgive me if I don't shed any more tears over that. I know what I did will never bring Amy back, but if he felt even a fraction of the agony she must have gone through, I'm fine with it. I failed her in life; any amends I could make in death were definitely worth the attempt.

And Catherine. I remember her shouting at me, telling me to hang in there, which would have made me laugh because that phrase always makes me think of that terrible poster from the Seventies—you know the one, with the distressed little kitten dangling from a clothesline? I never liked that one, personally. I know she meant well; but I was so tired and beaten down and ready to let go. People talk about the peace that closure brings, but they never mention how sometimes it can flatten you too.

But I woke up, which surprised the hell out of me, to be honest. I have a tougher constitution than I realized, I guess. Tubes everywhere, an ache in my gut and a headache from hell. Hospitals always smell the same; disinfectant and starchy sheets and plastic. I was thirsty, but the nurse told me I couldn't have any water. She did swab out my mouth with a sponge on a stick though, and that helped a bit.

After a while, a doctor came in—some lanky Texan with a thick mustache—and he told me I'd been lucky because the bullet had passed through me. Sure, it had punched through my small intestines and nicked the bottom of my stomach, but on the bright side it missed my spine so as trajectories go, it was fairly straightforward.

I didn't feel particularly lucky. Or smart. Or relieved. Between the pain medication and the thirst, my focus wasn't what it should have been, and under it all I just wanted to sleep, even though I wasn't sure--

Would I still have nightmares?

As it was I didn't find out for a long time anyway; I kind of hovered in that half-sleep state you get into after surgery—the one where you can't really tell day from night, and everything feels either completely static, or as if it's going in slow cycles of deja-vu. Nurses taking blood, checking your pulse, the same carts rolling past the same doorways, the same quiet pages over the intercoms. A sameness and a strangeness that settles in and makes you wonder if things have always been like this.

I had no idea what was going to happen to me, not that I much cared. Frank was dead, and with him, the last bloody chain that held me to the past. The state of Nevada would probably convict me for murder, but New Jersey would fight to extradite me for the prior. My only saving grace was that at least the DA here would know my side of the story—I'd Emailed it to him along with the combination to my locker for the evidence to back up my testimony. Either way I was due for time behind bars.

Somehow, this didn't feel like a bad thing.

CATHERINE

I woke up with a bit of a stiff neck, but I felt better oddly enough. The sleep had done me good, and now I was ready to think about the bits and pieces that were still floating around in my head . . . after a cup of coffee. The vending machine made a decent cup, and after I poured in a few packets of sugar I felt almost human again. I called home and checked in with mom. She knew I was working the shooting, so she was pretty patient, which was a blessing. I told her I'd be home soon, and reminded her to make sure Lynds ate something before school, then I hung up.

The great thing about early morning in a hospital is that you can wander a little because the shift is changing and nobody's paying a lot of attention. I circled around the ICU and realized that the main hallway was empty, so I slowly made my way down it, trying to look as if I belonged there. First few doorways were hard to pass—part of me kept hoping even while part of me was trying to be realistic. As I tried to keep inconspicuous, I managed to peek into the first three rooms. An elderly woman with her head in bandages was in the first one. The second one was empty.

Just as I started to look in the third on, I heard a voice behind me, a low deep one. "You lost?"

I was afraid the jig was up, so I took a breath and got ready with my line of BS, hoping I could charm my way out of being the wrong place, but when I looked at the guy, I hesitated.

He wasn't a doctor, not in that outfit. This little old man was about my height, bald on top with a white fringe of hair around his head, and one of the biggest, bristliest mustaches I've ever seen. The thing under his lip looked like a roller from the car wash, honestly, but it was as white as the rest of his hair—what he had of any.

Sharp eyes; sort of a watery blue, thin shoulders. He had on a Hawaiian shirt with pink surfboards on it, and a baggy pair of Madras shorts in green and black, black socks and sandals. Skinny varicose veins all up and down his legs. In short: he looked like somebody's hippie grandfather. I wasn't sure what to say, but finally I spoke up. "Not lost, just . . . looking."

"Looking isn't always a good idea. You might find," he responded, and there was something in his tone that made me look a little more sharply at him. Then, very slowly, he winked, and I know it sounds stupid, but right then and there I got this weird feeling that this old man knew a lot more than I initially gave him credit for.

Then he sighed and motioned for me to come along with him. I was curious, so I did. We stepped around the corner, to one of the secondary rooms off the side, and he pushed open a door with no number on the outside of it. And yeah, on the bed, looking pasty and sluggish, but definitely alive---Mike Keppler.

I didn't know whether to smack him or hug him, so I settled for gritting my teeth. Mike looked over when the two of us came in, and anything I was going to yell at him died when I saw him smile. Just a little one, but it sort of slammed into me and I was next to his bed without really knowing how I got there.

"Catherine," he croaked.

"You look like hell," I blurted, mostly to keep from overreacting. I reached out—couldn't help myself really—and touched his hand. Cool, but definitely alive.

"Rough shift. I have an extra belly button now," he told me solemnly.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

MIKE

She found me. This didn't surprise me because I'd learned early that Catherine Willows was one hell of a determined lady when she wanted to be. She looked good, too, even though I could tell she'd been up all night and hadn't had a chance to retouch her make-up. I kind of liked seeing her looking a little tousled to be honest. It sort of made up for how crappy I'm sure I looked.

Still, It meant a lot to see her there, getting mad at me. I know I shouldn't have been amused at that, but I was. Then I saw the old guy she was with, and it confused me. He wasn't a doctor, and since I'd heard that her father was dead I knew it couldn't be Sam Braun either. The old guy spoke up in this low foghorn of a voice.

"Okay kids, we have a lot to talk about, so let's get comfortable." He went and closed the door, then pulled out a chair for Catherine, but she shook her head and stayed standing next to me—another move I appreciated, to be honest. The old guy shrugged and sat down himself, settling in. I couldn't get over his outfit—one of the worst looking shirt and pants combos I've seen in a long time, and I'm not noted for any sort of fashion sense myself. Personally I stick with a black and white wardrobe because it takes the hassle out of decision-making and is cheaper in the long run.

Anyway, the old guy looked at me and then Catherine, then sighed. "What we have here is a very complicated situation that I've been put in charge of," he said. "My name is Wally Ditmeyer, and I'm in charge of you, Mr. Keppler."

"Under who's authority?" Catherine asked, before I could. Mr. Ditmeyer nodded and fished in a pocket. He pulled out this ancient leather badge case and handed it over; Catherine examined it and passed it to me with a worried look in her eyes. I looked at the thing.

Gold shield—real gold, too, not just brass—with the Department of Justice logo on it, and a Latin motto underneath that I didn't recognize. The entire thing looked to be pretty old, and when I glanced up at Mr. Ditmeyer he was nodding.

"Got that in nineteen fifty seven, from Hoover himself, so let's just say I've been around awhile. I work out of the Justice Management Division, and I'm here to talk to you, Michael Keppler, about your situation. But first--"

I watched him stare at Catherine, and for a moment none of us spoke. I didn't want her to go, but it was probably for the best. Before I could say anything, however, she took my hand and gave Mr. Ditmeyer a little glare.

"—My name is Catherine Willows and I'm from the Las Vegas crime lab. I'm staying," she told him in a concrete sort of voice.

That felt good. Both the hand and the support. It's been a long time since anybody chose to stand by me.

Wally Ditmeyer gave a little nod, as if he'd been expecting this. "Okay then. I've got some nondisclosure agreements for you to sign before you leave, then. This is now a classified case under the federal mandates laid out by my department. Normally I would have waited a day or two, but since you're big news with the media it seemed right to expedite this thing."

"What thing?" I asked, because I had a suspicion. Ditmeyer waved one hand at me and shrugged.

"Your fabulous future, Mr. Keppler."

I shook my head. "My future is predetermined. Orange jumpsuits and headcounts at a penitentiary."

"In other circumstances, yes, but in these—no. The DOJ is going to waive any and all charges against you for the killing of Frank McCarty. Clearly that was an act of self-defense for you and Ms. Willows here."

I was a little stunned by that; part of me wanted to argue the point, but Mr. Ditmeyer shook his head and I had the spooky feeling he knew what I was thinking.

"We're not doing this out of the goodness of our hearts, Mike—can I call you Mike?"

I nodded and he continued. "Good. Mike's a solid name. Okay, as I said, this isn't altruism on our part, it's pragmatism. Here's the bottom line—you're a well-educated, well-decorated law enforcement officer with hundreds of hours of experience and skill. We stick you in a prison, and all that goes to waste, not to mention that your lifespan expectation goes way, way down. From our end, it's a loss of manpower and investment to put you away to rot, Mike."

I watched Catherine nod, and I did too. Mr. Ditmeyer eyed us both and spoke again. "We'd been keeping tabs on Frank McCarty for a while . . . an apple that bad leaves a lot of vinegar in his wake."

CATHERINE

It was nice to know my instincts were still good. Mr. Wally Ditmeyer was definitely much more than the outside package he presented, that's for sure, and I was glad to see that someone in the higher ups was concerned about Mike's welfare . . . on top of being a decent guy, he was a damned good CSI, even if he did some across as a little . . . off the beaten path at times.

I tried to focus on what Ditmeyer was saying, but part of my attention was taken up by Mike's hand holding mine. Big hand; I mean seriously big. I'd seen him struggle a little to get latex gloves on and now I understood why. So while I was trying to focus on the conversation, I was also thinking about relative body size and almost drifting into my personal 'Don't-GO-there' territory.

And that was hard, because I'd kind of sort of already done it before . . . privately. Hey, I work with a number of good-looking men, and a girl's got to have a fantasy life if she doesn't have a REAL life, right? I'd learned the hard way that a real love life could be a dangerous thing, what with being stalked by a DA and nearly date-raped at a bar . . . I won't say I had been completely cautious in my off-time, but after all that, why take the risk anymore?

Yeah, well the feel of Mike's hand was doing a lot to chip away at that stance. Big and warm. Getting warmer in fact.

" . . . And we were aware of some of MacCarty's history already. The thing we're most concerned about is that about three of his cronies are still around, and not one of them would be thrilled to know you're alive, Mike. Let me mention some names," Ditmeyer commented. "Mac Broyman, Joe Finelli and Sy Dynzek."

"I know them," Mike mumbled. "Not proud of the fact." His fingers tightened on mine as he spoke. Mr. Ditmeyer gave a dry laugh and leaned back in the hospital chair.

"None of them are worth a rat's ass, I agree . . . but they had ties to Frank, and God only knows what might have been said over one beer too many. Sy and Mac are still in Trenton; Joe's retired in Florida. Therefore, you're not going back to either of those states. In fact, it might be prudent to have you spend at least a year or two out in the boonies, and that's where I come in."

I watched at Wally Ditmeyer leaned forward and stared at us both, and the look in his eyes made me blush—it was as if he'd read some of my less-than-pure thoughts there.

He cleared his throat. "Truth is, Mike, you need to heal up—I think we can all agree about that, right? You'll need about a month of serious take-it-easy time while your gut heals up and you take your meds. You also need someone to check up on you. I'll be doing that, but I'm stretched a little thin at the moment with two other cases I'm dealing with, so I was thinking of deputizing Ms. Willows here if she's up for it."

Mike tried to shake his head. "No, no—she's out of it; she's done enough for me already—"

"Shush," I told him and nodded at Ditmeyer. "I'm in."

Spur of the moment decision, but honestly, I couldn't say no, not after the man had taken a bullet for me, right? Besides, Desert Palms is a good hospital, but I didn't think their visiting nurse program was going to take an oath of secrecy just to make sure Mike Keppler got his dressings changed regularly.

Ditmeyer nodded—a little smugly, I noticed, but when he saw my expression he covered his grin with a cough. "All right then, looks good. I'll get you into one of the safe houses here in Vegas and you can do your recuperating there. While you're at it, we'll see what line you might want to get into in the next few months."

Mike looked perplexed, and coughed a little himself. "I'm a criminalist. I'm happy as a criminalist, Mr. Ditmeyer."

"Call me Wally. Yeah, but you've got some talent in a few specialties too, Mike. You can't tell me you've never thought about profiling."

Bingo; even I could see Mike's gaze narrow at that. Made me wonder what sort of records access Mr. Wally Ditmeyer had within the Department of Justice. Then the old guy yawned, and I noted he still had all his own teeth, even has he popped a hand over his face. "Pardon me, boys and girls—been up all night, which isn't as easy as it used to be. In any case, we don't need to be making any big decisions right now. You'll be here at the hospital for at least two days."

"I'm sure I could work that into my schedule, yeah," Mike replied dryly.

I grinned at that; he couldn't be too bad off if he could be sarcastic. Ditmeyer pretended to frown but I could tell he was sort of tickled by Mike's comeback. He struggled a little to get out of the chair, and grumbled. "Smart talk, yeah, well which one of us has a bullet hole in him this time, heh? Still, all this has to be kept on the hush. That means you--" He pointed at me, "--have to keep away for a day or two and go along with the official story that Mike's dead, Ms. Willows—got that?"

I nodded; what would be the point of telling anyone anyway? I turned to Mike and sighed, thinking of logistics. "Do you want me to pack up your stuff, or will you have relatives coming?"

He shook his head. "Nobody left, to be honest—I'd appreciate it, but it's not much."

I frowned. "Was anything coming to Vegas later, by moving van?"

Mike shook his head again, closing his eyes. "I travel light . . . socks and underwear in one suitcase, ties and shirts in the other."

He meant it as a joke I think, but it sounded so damned sad that I found myself squeezing his hand tightly just to stop from saying something stupid. Mike squeezed back.

Wally Ditmeyer stepped over and took me by the elbow, his grip gentle. "Okay, we gotta let the man rest and do some paperwork in the meantime . . . let's head on down to the cafeteria, Ms. Willows."

"Call me Catherine," I told him, still looking at Mike. He reluctantly let go of my hand, and I realized I was a little scared to lose sight of him myself—as if he might disappear one more time.

Then Ditmeyer cleared his throat. "He's not going anywhere, trust me on this."

Well I hated that I'd been so obvious so I lifted my chin a bit and told Mike I'd see him later. I didn't say anything more until we were in the courtyard of the hospital cafeteria, taking in a little more sun than I was used to. Ditmeyer, however looked like a chameleon on a favorite rock, grinning in the warmth.

We did paperwork—mostly nondisclosure agreements and intake forms on Mike. When we were done, Ditmeyer nodded at me and grinned once more.

"Okay, so you're now an unofficial member of the Amnesty and Relocation Division, Justice Management office of the Department of Justice, hoo-hah. Feel special yet?" he asked me, and because he was flashing those big teeth under that roller brush mustache I couldn't stay miffed for long.

"I'm tingling—" I replied, rolling my eyes.

MIKE

The next few days were boring, and I slept as much as I could since I've never been a fan of daytime TV . . . or TV at all for that matter. It was enough to do all the things the doctor and nurses wanted of me; blood pressure, blood draws, exams, sonograms. Doctor Granger told me again how lucky I was that Frank had been short, and shot me at an angle. I didn't want to argue and point out that getting shot wasn't really lucky in any sense of the word because the doctor was also pretty happy that I was healing quickly too.

I ached a little, and spit up a little blood now and then—the nurses told me that was because of the stomach nick—but the real pain was boredom. I finally wrangled an ancient copy of Goodbye Mr. Chips from the phlebotomist, who told me someone had left it in her station.

Not a bad story.

And I was hankering to see Catherine again. She was my only connection to anything now, outside of Wally Ditmeyer, who did stop by once more, late in the evening of the third day. He was in another garish Hawaiian shirt—this one with Easter Island moai all over it in neon green. He had me read and sign about twenty pages of forms, notarizing each after I finished. When we were done with all of them, I officially had a new Social Security number and name. On all records I was now Michael Keller; a change that I suppose I could live with. Close enough to the old one that I could remember it anyway.

Ditmeyer warned me not to marry anyone named Helen.

Ha-ha.

Once he'd filed away all the paperwork he gave me my new driver's license and Social Security card and took away my old ones. It was hard letting them go, but Ditmeyer made up for it by forking over a Visa and an American Express as well.

"Same line of credit you've always had, but give it a few weeks before you start shopping on the Internet, okay?" came his comment. "And would it kill you to maybe get a blue suit? Maybe a shirt with stripes?"

I eyed his Hawaiian atrocity and said nothing; immediately Ditmeyer got a little huffy. "What? This is a classic pattern."

"So was smallpox."

"Feh! Enough. You'll be getting out of here tomorrow, according to Granger. I've got a place to stash you for the time being, since it just opened up. My neighbor moved in with her boyfriend, and the duplex is free for the time being until I get it gussied up. It's not fancy, but I suspect it will do. I'll make sure you've got some basic furniture anyway, and utilities. Are you allergic to anything?"

I shook my head.

"Good. You like paella? And corndogs?"

"I've . . . never had them together," I admitted honestly. Ditmeyer nodded sagely.

"Trust me, they're a perfect match. Just like cream cheese and barbeque sauce."

He had to be pulling my leg, but I nodded anyway. Then a thought struck me. "So you're going to be next door?"

"I own the duplex, yeah—a little investment I made about fifteen years ago. It's all right, I'm gone most of the day and I sleep like the dead at night, so you and Ms. Willows don't have to worry about me."

This I had to correct, right away. "Catherine and I aren't involved."

"Really," Ditmeyer replied, and he used that tone of his; the one that implied a hell of a lot in two syllables. I was pretty sure I didn't like his insinuation . . . mostly.

"Really," I shot back, but it was weak. It wasn't like I hadn't had a moment or two of wishful thinking. Ditmeyer snorted then, rolling his eyes toward the hospital ceiling.

"Gee, I wish I had a beautiful dedicated coworker who wanted to nurse me back to health. Must be rough."

"It is. First, you have to get shot in the gut."

Ditmeyer waved a hand, grinning. "Pass. Anyway, she and I will be here tomorrow to spring you and get you situated. I know the doc will have a list of instructions and dietary restrictions and all, so Catherine will have to do some shopping for you. Hope you like soup, Mikey boy."

The next morning I was up and ready to go two hours early. I'd finished my book, had my stitches checked--front and back--and was handed a list of instructions about pills, bathing and exercise. When the nurse brought in the wheelchair I almost balked, but suddenly Ditmeyer and Catherine were there, both of them smirking at me from the doorway.

Catherine looked good. Jeans, scoop neck powder blue sweater—that kind of good. She saw my expression and glanced down at herself for a moment. "Took the night off so I wouldn't have to rush. Ready to go?"

"More than ready," I assured her.

We rolled out to a side exit and walked to Ditmeyer's car, which was a late model Ford Escort. There were grocery bags in the back already and when I looked at Ditmeyer he shrugged.

"Catherine's idea."

When I looked at her she gave a little cock of her head and smiled. "I'm a mom; I think like a mom—be prepared."

It was one of her good smiles too, I could tell because her dimples showed. We looked at each other a moment and then Ditmeyer made a big show of taking my wheelchair away, grumbling under his breath, and we all got in; me in front with Ditmeyer, Catherine in the back.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

CATHERINE

Mike looked pale but he was taking it slow, which was a good sign. It was a little strange to see him with stubble, considering how fastidiously clean-shaven he usually was, and I bet myself a dollar he'd probably take care of it before the day was done.

The duplex was in the shadow of a water treatment reservoir on a little cul-de-sac. It looked promising, and once we got inside, I was impressed. Brick flooring, more spacious than it looked from the outside, with a step down living room and a decent kitchenette.

One thing about my job—it's given me a pretty good eye for housing.

Mike walked through and checked out the bedroom and bathroom, pronounced them okay and came back out to where we stood. Wally was helping me load up the cupboards—that is, he was talking to me while I was loading up the cupboard. Mike stood in the doorway, and I noticed he was looking lost, so I made a suggestion.

"Better see if the dishwasher works."

"Of course it works!" Wally objected, but when Mike lumbered over and flicked the switch, nothing happened. I was pretty sure the last tenant had unplugged it, but letting Mike figure that out would help him feel more at home.

He squatted down to open the cupboards under the sink while Wally grumbled. Me, I was enjoying the sight of that long back bent over a bit, but I pretended to be focused on getting the rice and cans of soup put away.

"Plug's out," he announced. Ditmeyer grunted and came over—the lure of home repair being too ingrained to ignore I guess. They plugged it back in and I filled a few empty ice trays, popping them into the freezer.

"What about laundry?" I asked. "Is there a washer and dryer?"

In the alcove in the hallway—not huge but they run," Ditmeyer assured me with a little glare. I flashed him a knowing look and a second later, he winked at me. "Wellllll, I think you're in good hands for the moment, Mike. I've got some stuff to do with my other two cases, so I'll be back around five or so. Call me if you need me."

He caught on quick for an old guy; I'll give him that much.

After Ditmeyer left, Mike wandered around again, going outside to look at the perimeter, then coming back in. He seemed a little restless, but I was ready for that too, so I motioned to a thick file on the kitchen table as I began setting up the crock pot. It was a secondhand one from Goodwill—the crock pot, not the file-- and it would do just fine for the mild beef stew I was making.

"I know you're still on the mend, but I wanted to ask you about this case that's been bothering me . . ." I began quietly, not looking at him.

He snorted though, and I smirked at the cupboards; some diversions are pretty obvious.

"Ah. The old 'Throw the gimp some paperwork' routine," he rumbled, but I could hear the grin in his voice. I chopped onions, my back still to him.

"The gimp has a terrific brain and a hell of a lot experience—why let that go to waste? Besides, I've been over this so many times I've lost perspective, and I'm hoping a fresh pair of eyes will spot whatever it is that I've missed."

"Sure, sure; no pressure—" Mike commented, but his voice was distracted and I knew he was already skimming the details of the case. I dug through one of the shopping bags and pulled out the skillet I'd brought from home to start browning the beef chunks, and it dawned on me that it felt good to cook for somebody again.

Oh I cook for Mom and Lindsey sure, but not as often as I'd like—my night shift schedule and Lindsey's growing social life tend to play havoc with plans for big dinners. I'm not a fancy cook, but every once in a while I like getting back to the basics, and just making stew was fine for the moment.

"So you're telling me two clowns killed each other?" Mike murmured. I turned to look at him, and he stared at me, just a hint of a grin on the corner of his mouth. I nodded.

"Slappy and Jo-Jo, both long-time employees of Circus Circus, just like the file says. The story is that they had been best friends for years, worked with a good routine involving that bucket of confetti shtick."

"Say that again," Mike murmured, and I turned around to look at him questioningly. His eyes were twinkling. I arched an eyebrow.

"The whole thing?"

"Nah, just that last word."

"Shtick."

"You need to draw it out a little more. Shhhhhtick," he demonstrated, putting that little Yiddish flare to it that made me grin. I waved my knife at him.

"Are you making fun of me, Michael Keppler?"

"I never make fun of women wielding knives—and it's Keller now. Mike J. Keller," he murmured. I heard some wistfulness there, and felt for him—it's got to be hard to change your name without a choice.

"What's the J for?" I asked softly.

Mike rolled his eyes. "Jacob. For my uncle."

I laughed. "Better than mine, trust me—"

"And your middle name is--?" he drawled out, eyes locked on mine. I hemmed and hawed, but there was no escaping that relentless stare.

"Collette," I muttered, waving the knife again for emphasis. It was the only threat I had. Mike did not laugh, but the corners of his mouth quirked up again and damn it, his eyes definitely twinkled.

This was bad news, because this meant he was flirting with me.

And that was bad only because it felt so very, very good.

"C.C. Willows. That sounds like cheerleader's name," he commented, with one eyebrow going up. I turned back to the stew.

"I was a cheerleader, several years back--M.J."

"Oh that's how it's going to be, huh?" Mike replied, and he DID laugh, turning back to the case file in front of him, "Fine. I like M.J. a hell of a lot better than my old nickname anyway."

"And that was . . . ?"

He blushed. Honest to God, he blushed, and if I hadn't been there to see it, I never would have believed it. Mike kept his head low, studiously ignoring me, his eyes glued to the document in front of him. I shifted my weight to one hip and crossed my arms.

"Wai-ting."

"No. It's rude, and maybe someday I'll tell you, but not here and now," he muttered, adding, "Please."

The 'please' got to me and I gave in, but right then and there I was determined to find out what that nickname was.

MIKE

After cooking for a few hours, the stew was great. Catherine only let me have one bowlful, but I could have gone with two, two and a half easy if I'd been healthy. She had the carrots cut up in chunks, and I really liked way the onions didn't overload it.

We ate, and talked about the case, because that was mostly a safe topic. I put forth my theory that Jo-Jo might have snapped after fifteen years of being the schlimazel to Slappy's schlemiel, and Catherine conceeded, yeah, that might have triggered the non-comedic gunplay all right.

After dinner I did the dishes—if you call rinsing them and loading up the dishwasher work. Me, I remember REAL washing, which involved hot water, Palmolive and dishtowels. Not that I miss those days or anything. Catherine sat with the file while I finished up at the sink. She looked up when I came back to the table. "You going to be all right?"

I nodded, and sighed a little. "Yeah. I could use something to read though—my body's still on night shift hours, and I'm not interested in infomercials."

She shrugged. "So let's go get something. I know this shop out on Michel Road—they've got some nifty cookbooks."

So that's how we ended up at Galileo's Garden, which was a beautiful little gem of a bookstore located in one of those out of the way corners you find in cities. Oak bookcases, big fish tank, hanging plants and cats—my kind of bookstore. They were using Dewey, so I wandered over to the three sixties and found a few true case file novels I'd been meaning to read. I had Property of the Folsom Wolf and Casebook of The Boston Strangler in hand, and was eyeing a hardback on the Bloody Benders when I looked around to find Catherine.

She was over at the display of Young Adult literature set up at a round table near the front of the store, thumbing through a copy of _Forever_ when I came up behind her, and she jumped.

"Searching for the good parts?" I asked her.

Catherine grinned. "Oh look, we have the same names as the main characters."

"Except my penis isn't named Ralph," I pointed out, just to see her blush. She stared over her shoulder at me with that blend of exasperation and amusement that makes her look like a tawny cat.

"You've read this book?"

"Yep, along with Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing and Iggie's House. They hold up pretty well," I admitted. It was cute to see how pink she got as she set the book back down among the others on display.

"So what are you reading now?" Catherine asked, trying to look above it all. I held up my selections and she eyed me again, looking a little more relieved. "Ah, bedtime stories."

"I'm still debating—I want to see what they have in Biography."

I wandered off again, and found the right section. A couple of Churchill studies caught my eye and I settled into an empty chair to look them over. At some point, one of the bookstore cats decided I looked trustworthy and stomped his way into my lap; since it was his store I put up with it. It wasn't until about half an hour later that I felt a nudge on my shoulder and looked up to see Catherine with three books of her own and an amused smile. I looked down, past my book. Ah. The cat had definitely staked out my lap, curled up there and apparently, I'd been petting him without even realizing it.

"Made a friend, huh?" She reached out a hand to stroke his head, but the cat batted at her. Gently, but it was a definite move of possessiveness. Catherine looked startled; I shrugged.

"Enough of that." Carefully I scooped up the tabby and set him on the floor where he looked confused and then annoyed, stalking off as I got up out of the chair.

Catherine watched him go, grinning. "I never knew a cat's ass could look so . . . huffy."

I had to laugh at that, and laughing hurt. In a second, she was right there under my arm, holding me up a bit. "Mike?"

"Just twinged myself," I told her, feeling a needle of pain right around my waist. I was dizzy too, having stood up too fast. Catherine tightened her grip and I leaned on her, grateful for the support. And the warmth. Especially the warmth, since other parts of my body were suddenly very much in-tune with the charms of Ms. Willows. After a few steps together, I reluctantly let go of her but she clung to me, watching my face closely.

"Don't go macho on me if you need a crutch—" she warned.

"I'm good."

At least I was trying to be.

We bought our books from a little old lady with a beehive hairdo and purple eyelids; I ended up owing Catherine twenty two bucks all told. She waved it off as we stepped out of the bookstore and into the heat of another Las Vegas night. Cities at night are beautiful—I know they've got a seamy underside just like every other place, but there's something about the lights and bustle that appeal to me.

"Hey . . . want some ice cream?" Catherine asked, pointing to the shop just beyond the bookstore. It was an independent place, not part of a chain like Baskin-Robbins, so I nodded.

"Cone, Cone on the Range? That's got to be one of the corniest names I've ever seen for an ice cream parlor," I told her. Catherine rolled her eyes, shifting the book bag from one hand to the other.

"You'll forget the name when you taste the stuff. Churn it themselves and is it ever good. I got a pint of their Pink Toddy sherbet for my birthday . . . it was to die for, really."

"Well--with an endorsement like that--"

They had pistachio, which put Cone, Cone On The Range into my good book right away; Catherine had her sherbet and we found an outside table, overlooking part of the parking lot. The view of battered Hondas and Volkswagens wasn't as intriguing as the one of Catherine with her cone . . . watching her lick the drippy circumference of her dessert.

Oooh boy.

Yeah.

This was both a good and bad thing, and I wrestled with my conscience for a while, trying not to stare, but not exactly ignoring her either. With Catherine, I know that she's aware of her effect on people, but that's only when she's deliberately using it.

Right here and now though, I couldn't be sure if she had a clue or not about what her slightly messy technique was doing to my libido.

Or my guilt.

CATHERINE

I was keeping an eye on Mike and trying hard not to show it; despite what he kept telling me I was sure he wasn't feeling good and I wanted to get him back to the duplex so he could lie down a while. It was time to get diplomatic, so I dropped the rest of my cone in the garbage and blotted with a napkin. Mike was looking in the store window of the place next door, so I went to see what he was studying with such fascination.

The place was a pawn shop; one of those tiny ones that seems to be one long aisle to the broker windows at the back. There were all sorts of items on display, but the one that had Mike's attention was a clarinet.

"Check that out—an Ubel. Man, I haven't seen one like that since the Sixties," he sighed. "Real silver keywork, African hardwood body." I shot him a sidelong look; he shrugged, but I noticed his eyes never left the window.

"You . . . played?" Now it was hard not to snicker because let's face it—the image of big hunkering Mike Keppler tootling away on a clarinet just didn't really jibe with what I knew of the guy. He turned to look at me though, and the sweetness of his smile took me by surprise.

"Had to give it up when I hit high school—it was either band or football, and the scholarships for athletes were bigger. One of those practical choices you make and then later regret sometimes."

"Opted for jock, huh?"

"It was a financial move," he mumbled. "Not helped by a dislocated shoulder in my senior year. Ah well—" Mike shifted away from the window, but I made a mental note to come back later and see if I couldn't haggle the clarinet down a bit.

I mean, I'm not sentimental, but it's not as if the guy had a lot of entertainment options available right now.

In any case, I got us back to the duplex before ten, and made sure Mike was properly medicated: antibiotic, pain medication and plenty of water to wash it down with. He was good about it right up until I wanted to check his dressings.

"They're fine—"

"Both of them?" I asked sweetly, knowing full well he couldn't really see the one on his back. He pursed his mouth and looked ready to argue the point, but I cut him off. "Look, they're probably fine for now, but they will need to be changed by tomorrow so I might as well see what they look like so I know."

He hesitated, but I made good sense and he knew it. Reluctantly, Mike undid his shirt and hiked up his undershirt. I made it a point not to stare, but damn . . . it's one thing to have seen him across the locker room, and another to have that much muscle within touching distance. He had a furry chest too—one of my personal weaknesses, yum.

The doctors had shaved around the bullet hole and the patch of gauze was taped around it. No blood spots leaking through, so his stitches were holding. Nice abs—nowhere near the Nick Stokes hard body variety, but still very attractive. I touched the tape, just to check it. Mike watched me.

"Thank God they shaved—I'd hate to have to tug a bandage off otherwise." I told him. He winced.

"Ow."

I snorted and made him turn around, so I could see his back. "Tape is nothing, buddy—try waxing sometime. Thank God I don't have to go full house on that anymore. This looks okay too—" I touched the second bandage, which was about in the middle of his left flank. Nice spine, long muscles, and I noted the elastic of briefs.

Interesting-- Mike Keppler, definitely a BVD man.

"Full house?" he asked, and I couldn't look at him. It's weird; anybody else and I'd be as nonchalant as ever, but something had changed, and I wasn't sure what.

"Uh yeah—that's the sort of like a Brazilian, but a little more left on show. Used to get them back . . . whenIwasastripper."

Dead silence. I touched the gauze on his back, noticing this one did have a little blood on it. I cleared my throat. "I see some spotting—does it hurt?"

"A little, but nothing bad," he replied. "Stripper, huh? I bet you were a good one."

That was NOT what I'd expected. I felt relieved and a little surprised. "I was, back in the day."

"Art's loss, justice's gain," Mike murmured as he buttoned up his shirt again. I moved around to face him again, feeling a little flushed for the compliment. Not every guy took my past so nonchalantly, and while I put up a matter-of-fact attitude about it most of the time, some opinions mattered more than most. Certainly those of the guys I worked with—Grissom, Brass, Warrick and Nick—I'd have never lasted without their acceptance of what I used to be.

The fact that Mike was unfazed about my past employment felt good, and I hoped, cautiously, that if we ever discussed it he'd still be as understanding.

And the fact that any of this mattered was starting to scare me.

I turned away from him and got busy getting his meds from the kitchen. Mike followed me a few moments later, and accepted the cup of water and three pills obediently.

"Antibiotic, pain and muscle relaxant," I told him. He sighed and downed all three in one gulp, then washed them down with the water. He made a face.

"Aftertaste."

"More water?"

"Please."

I got him more and waited until he was done. "Okay then, I think you're good for the night. If you get hungry, you should probably stick to the pudding cups. I didn't know if you liked making your own eggs, so I bought you some, along with toaster waffles . . ."

Yep, I was babbling. Absolutely babbling. Luckily I realized it and let it go. Mike just nodded and set the cup on the drain board. I pulled my purse strap onto my shoulder and headed out to the door, feeling a need to get out of there. Mike followed me again, and caught me by the arm before I opened the door.

Normally I don't let guys do that—grab my arm, I mean. But he was gentle, just snagging the sleeve. "Hey, Catherine—"

I looked up, into his solemn expression. "Yeah?"

"I . . . Thanks. For all of it. Not just the stew, which was great, but the bookstore, and the ice cream, everything tonight. I'm grateful."

The big lug stood there looking down at me like . . . God, like some overgrown puppy and I couldn't resist. I slipped my arms around his ribcage and gave him a hug. Just a little one—gentle because I knew he'd be sore, but Mike wrapped his arms around me and squeezed back.

Heavenly.

The scent of him was just so . . . nice. Knowing he was alive, and that he'd be okay felt terrific too. And it was nice to be hugged back. I won't lie; my girly hormones were activating big time, so before I did anything stupid I reluctantly pulled away and grinned at him.

"Did you want me to stop by tomorrow, before I go into work?"

"Sure—if it's not too much trouble," Mike nodded. "No phone here, so call next door if you need to."

He watched me climb in and drive off—I know, because when I looked in the rear-view mirror he was still in the doorway of the duplex.

I hoped he was going to sleep all right . . . because I wasn't sure I would.


	4. Chapter 4

MIKE

I read a while, and tried to settle in, but it was around three before I finally felt sleepy enough to go to bed. The green sheets looked slightly worn and I figured they must be spares from Ditmeyer or Catherine. When I climbed in, I could tell they'd been washed with fabric softener, so these had to have been Catherine's.

A nice thought. The mattress was firm--the way I like them--and it didn't take too long for me to drop off.

I dreamed. For three nights in the hospital I hadn't dreamed at all, but tonight everything rolled out again in full color as if making up for the lost time. Streets I knew, places I'd been, things I remembered all came to my sleeping mind.

There were two long dreams: in the first one I was back in Philly, heading to my partner Dan's place. I remembered seeing the kiddie pool in the front yard, and hearing him and his two sons somewhere in the area. I always liked Dan's place, and how he and Carrie made a good life there. When I pulled up there was a party going on—balloons and signs out, laughing. I got out and walked to the back yard, but nobody was there. The grass was nearly a foot high, and the whole place looked like nobody'd mowed or lived there for a year. I went to the back door and stepped inside.

The living room was filled with waffles. Hundreds of them, stacked up high. Round ones, square ones, Belgian, you name it. I've never seen so many of the damned things, and when I walked in, there was always a pathway through them, no matter what direction I turned.

When I went to the kitchen, it wasn't the kitchen anymore; it was an airport. I moved around still looking for Dan, but now there were gates and terminals and folks with luggage looking at me. I was feeling a little lost when I finally woke up, but grateful it wasn't one of the more disturbing dreams I was prone to.

Got up, used the bathroom, went back to bed.

Then the second dream began. I was back at the crime lab in Las Vegas, working in the Trace lab. It was dead quiet, I had the big light table in front of me, and it was empty.

I went to get the evidence pouch, and found it full of clarinet reeds. I dumped them out but they disappeared the minute they were out of the bag, even after I searched the countertop and the floor.

At this point, I was feeling a little frustrated, and when I looked back at the light table . . . Catherine was lying on it.

Naked.

Eating an ice cream cone.

I forgot all about the damned reeds and stared at her; she was on her stomach, lower legs waving playfully behind her in the air, propped up on her elbows. The way the light shone up from the table accentuated all those curves and bare skin. Sleek spine, tight rounded ass, curvy waist--

A part of me was panicking—what the hell was she doing? Anybody could walk into Trace and see her—and other parts of me just kept me staring.

Catherine kept licking the ice cream, making little happy noises, not a care in the world about being nude at work. I asked her what she was doing.

She didn't answer, but she did hold out the ice cream, giving me a great view of her gorgeous chest---

I woke up, not in the best shape, to put it mildly. Without even debating it I reached into my briefs and stroked myself out of my aching misery, feeling the thick hot splashes gush over my stomach in ropy strings a few minutes later as I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on the delicious image of Catherine.

And even though it had been a while since I'd resorted to self-gratification, it felt . . . incredible.

Afterwards, when I could breathe again, I tried to dismiss it. A quick clean-up in the bathroom helped, even as I avoided glancing at myself in the mirror. I climbed into fresh briefs and dropped back into bed, thinking it was damned ironic that Catherine Willows had certainly done more for me in a single night than I could ever thank her for.

I got up around eleven, showered, made the bed and had beef stew leftovers for breakfast. I looked around the place again and noticed it could use a little maintenance work—the living room needed some spackle and new paint, and the tub faucet leaked. I went next door.

Wally was in, and wearing yet another Hawaiian shirt; this one in grey with bright orange pineapples on it. He was doing a crossword puzzle. Weird kitchen—the whole thing was straight out of the Sixties, with car handle refrigerator and Formica table.

"What's an eight letter word for a female demon that comes in the night, Mike?"

"Succubus," I responded, trying not to assume anything by his question. He filled it in and looked up at me.

"Thanks. So, how you feeling today?"

"Not bad, but a little . . . bored."

He nodded in a commiserating way. "Know the feeling. Unfortunately, the paperwork takes at least a couple of weeks, so it's going to be a while. Got any hobbies you want to take up again? Build ships in a bottle?"

"I used to work on cars . . ." I grinned, "but I don't think you've got any around for repair. On the other hand, I was looking at your place—"

He glanced up from the crossword puzzle, a little wary and I shrugged, trying to be mild.

"Just thought I could do a few things over there while I was waiting, that's all."

"Like what?"

"A little painting maybe, if you supplied the materials. Some general around the place stuff—replace switches, fix leaks---" I offered. "Just to keep myself busy."

Ditmeyer squinted at me, finally setting his pen down. "You're serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Good. Because if your offer's genuine, then let's talk."

Twenty minutes later we were at a Home Depot and I began to wonder what I'd let myself in for. Ditmeyer had a cart loaded up with various drop cloths and paint and rollers.

"The whole living room—you're sure?" I asked him again. Wally nodded again, grinning under that big mustache of his.

"With my arthritis, getting up and down on a ladder all day was gonna kill me, but you're tall and cheap labor to boot," he crowed.

"You're enjoying this—" I accused, but it was weak. Truth to tell I was fine with the idea of painting. The symbolism wasn't lost on me that's for sure—new identity, new house—holes spackled up . . .

"Damn skippy, Mike. But I'm good for it. I'll let you use my car if you need to."

The offer sounded good to me. We were back around lunchtime, and Ditmeyer sprang for subs; afterwards he talked about work to do and left me to start with the spackling. Whoever had lived here before me must have had a lot of art on the walls—I counted at least seventeen nail holes. Most were easy to do, but one of them took some stretching, even for me, and I had another twinge hit me hard.

Not fun.

Once the holes were filled, I opened the back door to let some air in, and mixed up cleaner to wipe down the baseboards. I got down on my hands and knees, trying not to pull anything, and scrubbed. Not a hard job, but a little awkward. By the time I reached the first corner I stopped, feeling as if someone was watching me.

You know the feeling—that odd little paranoia that makes the hair on the back of your neck go up. Carefully I looked around and somehow it wasn't much of a shock to realize I wasn't alone.

He was eyeing my work critically, and then looked at me. I stared back.

"It's the best I can do, for the moment," I told him, then felt like an idiot for justifying myself to a dog.

He (definitely a he) wagged his tail a tiny bit in what I could only interpret as a faint apology. I'm not given to anthropomorphizing, but this was a case of clear communication. Moving slowly—both not to scare him, and because it kept me from hurting—I sat cross-legged on the brick floor and held out a hand, palm down to him.

CATHERINE

Work was busy. On top of the usual cases going on, it turned out that the big package that had been sitting on Grissom's desk during his sabbatical was another damned gift from the Miniature Killer, and that threw us all for a loop.

Ecklie called me in right before the shift was over and reminded me that I was going to be called to testify in the inquiry over Mike's death. I had a hard time looking properly distraught, and inwardly I was panicking over what I might be asked. It was going to be big—officials were flying in from Philadelphia and Trenton for this thing. By the time I got out of the Lab, I was less than happy.

Then once I got home, mom reminded me about the cheerleading Grand Canyon trip, and all the logistics therein. She and my baby girl would be off for five days to see a huge hole in the ground while I got stuck feeling the pet goldfish. The only good part was that I'd have the house to myself for a while. I considered that I might even have Mike over . . . cooking would be a lot easier with a few more tools at hand.

I slept and had a few weird dreams—nothing I could really remember later, but enough to keep me from getting a good rest. I got ready for work, and swung by the duplex first, feeling a little anxious and a little cranky.

When Mike answered the door the first thing I noticed was that he looked guilty; he had that shifty-eyed look a guy gives you when he's hiding something. I barged in. "Okay, let's have it, what's wrong?"

"Nothing—" he protested, and then I heard the toenails. I looked down and saw a black, white and brown dog looking up at me.

"You have a dog."

"I don't have a dog. I have a . . . visitor," Mike corrected. "He wandered in while I was washing the walls."

"You were washing the walls? Two bullet holes in you and you're washing the walls?" Okay I was getting a little shrill, but Mike found it funny because he had that lopsided grin on his face and even the dog was cocking his head.

"You have to wash the walls before you can paint them," he told me in what I'm sure he felt was a reasonable tone of voice, but I wasn't ready to be reasonable.

"Ditmeyer is making you paint the place? Okay, Justice Department or not, that guy is getting a piece of my mind—what the hell is he thinking, Mike? You're supposed to be recuperating, not . . ."

I didn't get to finish. Mike lightly gripped my upper arms and forced me to look up at him. He wasn't foolish enough to grin, but I could tell he was amused. He cleared his throat. "I volunteered."

"You . . . . volunteered." I could still sense the crafty hand of Wally Ditmeyer in this, but Mike shrugged.

"Catherine—I need something to do. Something more than just reading and eating."

"I could bring you Lindsey's Game Cube."

"Nice offer, but I'm not into videos. Besides—" he let me go and sighed, "Something physical helps me . . . sleep."

I heard something melancholy in that tone, but I wasn't going to push it. Instead, I looked at the dog, who'd been watching us. He wagged his tail and stepped forward. I glanced at Mike.

"Friendlier than the cat, anyway."

"Ted's a good listener," he agreed. "Fairly nonjudgmental."

I gently patted the dog, who snuffled into my hand and wagged a bit more enthusiastically. "So he's got a name now?"

Mike smirked, and squatted down, ruffling the dog's ears. "He looks like a Ted. Between the two of us we finished off the stew you made."

"I made the stew for you, not a dog—" I tried to grumble, but the sight of the dog, and more importantly the sight of how happy the dog made Mike stopped me from any further complaining. I shrugged instead, and moved to the sofa, sitting down on it. "—Whatever. So you've got a dog. Does Ditmeyer know?"

"Not yet."

"Joy. Listen Mike, sometime tomorrow I'm going to be called in to testify on what happened the night you were shot. It's going to be a pretty big inquest—" I filled him in on the details, as far as I knew them. Mike came over to plant himself beside me, listening gravely. When I was done, we both sat in silence for a while.

"So I'm really . . . dead, officially," Mike rumbled. I patted his knee gently.

"I cleaned out your locker, and picked up some of your things from your office . . . told Grissom I'd mail them to your next of kin—"

"—Beth. I think I still have her listed on all my official paperwork. She's in Philadelphia. Remarried now."

"Ah." I hadn't known there was an ex in the picture, but then again, Mike probably didn't know I was a widow, either. We still had a lot to learn about each other. "Is she your executrix?"

"Frank was—although Beth is still beneficiary for my insurance and pension . . . She knows I wanted to be cremated and scattered," he murmured thoughtfully. "I wonder how that's gonna work."

I shook my head. "I'm willing to bet Ditmeyer's done this before and he probably has it covered. Ashes to spare."

"Maybe." He looked at me and cocked his head a little. "Beth's a vice principal at an elementary school. Strong, firm, quiet—she deserved better than I could give her."

I didn't say anything to that; I mean what could I? This was probably one of the most personal insights I'd ever gotten from Mike, and it sounded like things had ended amicably. I tried to look sympathetic, but still, a part of me was seething with curiosity. Why had they split? Were there any kids? What was Mike like in bed?

That last one was definitely no-no land, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit I thought about it. I tried to push it out of my mind. "Will she fly out?"

He shook his head. "Probably not—she'll arrange for shipping, and drop my pseudo-ashes somewhere in New Jersey."

We were both quiet after that, just sort of sitting together, both of us lost in thought. Finally, Ted sneezed, and that broke the moment. Mike got up just as the door began to open.

Ditmeyer. He came in and Ted trotted over to him; without missing a beat the old guy sighed. "Great. A dog. If you were renting, Mike, I'd demand a pretty hefty deposit you know."

I did notice Wally was scratching Ted under the chin though. Mike sighed.

"He wandered in from the back yard . . . "

"Probably dumped," Ditmeyer sighed. "Happens a lot here next to the treatment plant. Ah well, I'll see if my girl Dusie's got room for him."

MIKE

So I ended up with a dog—for the moment. Neither Ditmeyer nor Catherine looked completely won over, but I had faith Ted would triumph. He'd listened to me unload a lot of personal crap earlier in the day and still wagged his tail at the end of it. I felt better, that was for certain—good enough not to be bitter about Beth anyway.

Beth. Good woman; put-upon wife. We tried; we really did. Met at a movie, dated, got engaged and married over a year. Beth was quiet and patient . . . up to a point. Even though I tried to put Amy out of mind and kept my contact with Frank to a minimum the damned nightmares wouldn't stop.

They never stopped.

Anyway, Beth wanted me to see a shrink, but I couldn't do that, for obvious reasons. She and I stopped sharing a bed the second year into our marriage, and the sex dwindled after that—it's pretty hard to be intimate if you're not sharing much space. When Beth finally asked for a divorce I didn't fight it; she had grounds and I had no reason to hang on to a relationship that wasn't doing either of us any good.

It was odd to think she'd probably cry once she got the call, and maybe think of me for the rest of the afternoon.

I came back to the here and now when Ditmeyer cleared his throat. "I need you to stay low, Mike. House arrest time, okay? Ms Willows and I have to go through the motions of checking into your death, and that means they'll be folks in from your old stomping grounds coming into Vegas. Call me a paranoid old fart, but the last thing any of us want is for you to run into one of them at the grocery store."

I nodded. Ditmeyer turned to Catherine. "And you—we're going to meet each other officially today, so don't blow it. Unofficially I'm there as a honorary rep of the Justice Department, but of course we both know better."

"You're there to make sure the loose ends get wrapped up," Catherine shot back and I had to grin at that; she's sharp. Ditmeyer nodded again.

"Bingo. So far everything's copacetic, but I never rest easy until the last file is closed. I'm gonna get going but I'll see you when you come in to work. And as for you Mike—just make sure your pooch is housebroken, okay?"

We watched Ditmeyer head out, and then Catherine touched my arm lightly.

"Hey. He's just worried for you. Come help me get some things out of the car."

"Yeah." I followed her out, and helped bring in a few paper bags, one of which had something that smelled good. Ted followed me when I set the bag on the kitchen table, and I pulled out a big Tupperware container of what looked like macaroni and cheese.

When I looked at Catherine she shrugged. "Easy to digest, usually goes over well with sliced hot dogs in it."

" Kraft and I are old friends," I assured her, and set it down. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"Oh come on—Macaroni and cheese is not cooking," Catherine blurted and I watched her go a little pink in the face as she handed me one of the bags. I opened it up and blinked, knowing what I was seeing, but not quite believing it yet.

"Catherine—" I started, feeling a little choked up; this was beyond the call of duty. But she just crossed her arms and smiled at me, cocking her head the way she does.

"I managed to talk the guy into a sale price, and he threw in a beginner book too, although I'm not sure the reed in the case is any good—you might have to soak it first."

"It's too much—" I protested, even as I pulled it out and started examining it closely. Gorgeous piece of work, definitely a classic in terms of a clarinet. "I'll pay you back, count on it."

"Just-- play for me when you're up to it sometime. Now come on, I want to change those dressings before I go into work tonight," Catherine replied, but her grin was beautiful and for the first time in a long time I was aware of someone actually . . . caring . . . about me.

It felt good.

The bathroom was a little small, but I undid my shirt and pulled up the undershirt while Catherine made little noises and carefully pulled off the hospital bandages. She did the one on my back first. Peeling it off and examining the stitches.

"You'll have a little macho scar in about a year," came her assessment. I looked at myself in the mirror, seeing a little more grey at the temples.

"Yay," I grumbled with no enthusiasm.

"Hey, better a little scar and a live Mike Keller than any other option, in my book," she responded, right before she patted the area with disinfectant. It didn't sting but it was cold, and I flinched a little.

She hovered a bit more. "Take it easy and let me get it covered back up—"

"—okay, okay—"

The crowding was getting to me a little. Catherine was intent on taking care of business, and while the better part of me agreed with that agenda, there were some ticklish reactions going on that I wasn't all that enthused to have her . . . notice.

Then I remembered, a little too late that I had another bullet hole—

"Shirt up, Mike—" she ordered. Sheepishly I hiked my clothing higher and looked down at the gauze patch six inches diagonally above my navel. Catherine reached for a corner of the tape and looked up at me.

So close . . . just inside my personal space, right where my entire body was aware of her.

"You're . . . furry."

"Genetics. I get it from my mom," I quavered. It was a stupid line, but she grinned and tugged on the gauze. It peeled away a little more reluctantly, clinging to the hair that was growing back. I tried not to make faces, but Catherine laughed anyway and dabbed at the pink gash.

"It's healing up. Still aches?"

"Yeah, a little. But I haven't had any more nausea."

"Sleep all right?" she asked, and I steeled my expression.

"Good. I slept good, Doctor Willows."

Catherine arched an eyebrow at me, but finished taping me up without any more questions.

She declined the offer of a bottled water and checked her watch, looking a little nervous. "I've got to get going . . . but I'll come see you tomorrow, during the day if you're still serious about painting. I don't mind a Saturday on a ladder."

"It's a date," I told her, then blinked a little at my own words. She gave me a crooked grin and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Good. And if you do feed any of the mac and cheese to Ted there—don't tell me about it, okay?"

We chuckled to the front door and then came that hesitation again. She moved to hug me; I moved to do it too, and this time it was a little easier to get my arms around her.

I've never been big on hugging, even with my own family, but I realized I could get used to the feel of Catherine; light, strong-- in a word, vital.

Then she turned her head and the brush of her cheek against face felt sort of inevitable. The corner of her mouth touched mine, sending a jolt through me. I must have tightened my grip on her, but all my attention was on that soft little contact point between us.

Then she squeezed and let go; I knew I had to do the same, regretfully. Catherine turned and made her way out to her car without looking back, but watching her walk I knew she felt it too, and was handling it about as well as I was.

Ted came over and bumped my leg, taking me out of my reverie.

We went to go have some food.


	5. Chapter 5

CATHERINE

I was a little rattled going into work, that much was clear even to me. Part of it was knowing about the inquest, and realizing I was going to have to be careful about everything I was going to say, and part of it was remembering that last hug-kiss thing with Mike, right before I left.

I mean, honestly, that was so . . . I dunno. Good? Yeah. Weird? Yeah. Intense? Definitely. All three reactions fit with room for 'a turn-on' and 'sad' as well.

When did Mike start meaning so much to me? I've always been aware that he's a good-looking man in his own way, but now . . . now I can't tell if I'm attracted to him because he's a terrific person, or because he's the first guy I've laid hands on in half a year.

That sounds so desperate, sheesh.

But it's a part of it; I won't deny that. I'm a woman who loves men—I always have and I don't think that's anything to be ashamed of. When I first met Mike he talked about how people are imprinted with an attraction to a certain type when they hit puberty, and when I think about it, he's right. I tend to like 'em tall and lanky, and with a furry chest. Eddie was like that, and so is Mike, so there may BE something to his theory.

Which makes me wonder if I'm his type.

Hard to say, and I certainly can't ask.

In any case, I got in, and Grissom had me working with him on the latest Miniature Killer model for most of the first part of the shift. I didn't mind—it was scut work, taking photos and measurements, but it kept me busy. When Ecklie paged me for the initial meeting of the inquest, I was calmer and ready to speak my piece.

There were four men in the meeting room: Ecklie; the IA rep, Charlie Haskell; a man I didn't recognize, and Ditmeyer. It was hard not doing a double-take when I saw Wally, simply because he was wearing a plain, dark blue suit. With a plain, dark tie.

And he was scowling.

Ecklie made the introductions, and I found out that the stranger was Herbert Bingham, from the Trenton district attorney's office. He was a worried looking guy, very thin and tall, with a habit of sucking his teeth.

Once we got started, I patiently went over all the details I could remember about the night Mike was shot—from the phone calls and my worried suspicion right down to the moment his body was loaded into the ambulance and driven away. It was hard, dealing with those mental images and trying to stay professional in front of these guys. Guilt was part of it too, and relief. I think I managed pretty well, right up until Ditmeyer started questioning me.

"Ms. Willows, we have a statement from the pathologist Collette Dulac that you spoke to her about looking for CSI Keppler's body. Is that true?" he demanded slowly in that foghorn voice of his.

I nodded. He made a little approving sound.

"And is it true that you were permitted to see what was left of Michael Keppler there at Desert Palms hospital?"

I blinked, and realized what a shrewd old goat Ditmeyer was. I cleared my throat. "Yes. I saw him there."

He nodded again; I noticed all the other men in the room deferred to him. He sighed. "Closure. I don't blame you for wanting a sense of that, Ms. Willows. I'm sure in your profession you appreciate the finality of death when you encounter it. I'm sure CSI Keppler appreciated your loyalty."

"Mike Keppler was a good criminalist," I murmured, and left it at that. For once even Ecklie was looking subdued, and in that little pause I noticed that the IA rep was closing his notebook and sighing.

And it was over, just like that. They filed out, Ecklie first and the other two guys after him, leaving Ditmeyer with me in the meeting room. He rubbed his mustache and shot me a serious look.

"You know that Michael Keppler was shot by Frank McCarty, and that he and McCarty had a long association in the past, Ms. Willows. Did Keppler ever mention how he came to be connected with the man?"

Uh-oh. This sounded like tricky ground, and even though nobody else was around, I shot an uneasy look towards the door. To be honest, I had been curious, but I didn't have access to Mike's personnel file. He might get around to telling me at some point—but considering that after eight years Grissom hadn't even told me his mother's name yet, I wasn't holding my breath.

I shook my head. Ditmeyer got up and came closer, looking at me with those sharp eyes, his mustache as brushy was one on a walrus.

"It's not my place to say, then. But . . . I'd appreciate it if you'd take these DA files to the mail room sometime after lunch. No hurry of course . . . " he intoned, handing me a thick dossier and slowly straightening up. I took them and nodded, waiting until he left the room, them made my way out to my car.

Oh God.

After the first couple of paragraphs into Mike's handwritten letter, so much of everything fell into place. When I saw the photo of Amy, I had to hold back a gasp—so young, and SO much like the girls that Doctor Dave had killed. No wonder that first case had rattled Mike so much . . .

I carefully packed everything back up when I was done, feeling such an ache in my chest for everything the man had gone through; hell, getting shot must have seemed like a relief. It was clear that Mike had carried his guilt for years, his own moral code making it impossible to deny his own complicity.

How anybody would live like that . . . all I can say is that I was moved more than I wanted to admit. Out of all the CSIs here in Vegas I'm generally known as the most cynical, but Mike's story hit me hard.

I made it a point not to go see him after work, feeling that I needed a little time to work on my poker face. Ditmeyer had let me see the file for a reason—maybe more than one—and I didn't want to abuse that trust. Mike might or might not tell me his story, but in any case, now that I knew it, I wasn't going to say anything until he made the choice to talk.

So I cleaned my house and puttered around, and generally caught up on all the crap that had piled up during the week—laundry and dishes. Went to bed around eight in the morning and slept until about three-thirty, feeling both rested and restless. I stuck my hair up in a ponytail, pulled on some jeans and a scoopneck teeshirt, then got in the car and headed over.

When I pulled up, I could hear music coming from inside the duplex and two things made me smirk--the selection and the volume. I knocked, but nobody seemed to hear, so I opened the door, and a THIRD thing had me absolutely grinning from ear to ear when I stepped inside to the living room.

Ever watch somebody dancing around, singing into a paintbrush, totally unaware of being seen?

I've caught Lindsay doing her bopping around once or twice, with shrieks of "Mom! Get OUT!" and a thrown pillow or two, but this—this was just so much more fascinating to me. I watched as all six foot three of Michael J. Keller nee Keppler stood before a section of living room was with his back to me and sang his rock star heart out along with Jim Morrison.

And he could sing, damn it. More than just carry a tune; I mean he really put some oomph into it. That growly baritone belting out "Ev'ry-BODY, loves m'ba-BEE" had me bursting into applause and whooping over the sound of the CD player. Mike spun around, completely startled and the paintbrush hit the drop cloth with a thick 'splat' as I reached over and turned off the music.

"Oh," he said, and I watched that rich bloom of blush sweep up over his pale, startled expression. God I loved his eyes at that moment; so vulnerable, but bright. Mike had been having a great time singing, clearly into it, relaxed and having fun . . . . suddenly I felt guilty as hell for embarrassing him.

Then he grinned and looked at the floor, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose in a sheepish way that told me right then and there that he wasn't mad---and I melted. I laughed and he joined in, both of us cracking up, coming closer instinctively.

Mike stepped over the paintbrush. "I, ah, sort of like that particular song. Very apropos for my situation as it were."

"And you were doing a kick-ass job with it too—Jim would be proud," I told him, feeling my own grin widening. "All you need is some shoulder-length hair and tight leather pants."

"Pass on both of those, thanks," he shot back dryly. "Along with the alcoholism and heroin addiction." He bent to retrieve the paintbrush and I head the sound of doggy toenails on brick as Ted came in from the kitchen, wagging his tail and carrying something in his mouth. Mike sighed.

"Great, another chameleon." Looking at me, he rolled his eyes. "Third one today—seems Ted's got a hobby."

"A little gift for the lizard king?"

Mike pointed a finger at me warningly, but his grin was sweet and I could see his dimples. Carefully he rescued the slightly squashed chameleon, carrying it out to the front yard and releasing it under the big yucca plant there while I took a look at the work in progress.

Not bad. Mike had done one wall---the only one without windows, and the vinegary smell of the paint was mild enough to tell me it was drying nicely. Navajo White of course, but a fresh coat did make the room look a little better. When Mike came back, I was already putting masking tape over the light fixtures. He squatted down and stirred the paint, so I took a good look at him.

That was when I realized that for all his initial appearance of lanky introspection, Mike was blessed with a natural masculine grace. His sleeves were rolled up and his collar unbuttoned, but even so, it cracked me up that the man was still in a dress shirt and not say, a T-shirt.

Then I remembered the poor guy didn't have much of anything left, let alone a wardrobe.

MIKE

O-kay, having Catherine catch me in the heat of the Morrison was not quite the way I wanted to see me, but considering it could have been worse I guess I got off lucky. She could have heard Ted and I in our duet for 'Time is on My Side' if she'd come around lunchtime.

No apologies. Ditmeyer has a pretty good music collection—my Aunt Mitzi Moonshadow would have loved most of it, from Arlo Guthrie's _Alice's Restaurant_ to that Zager and Evans classic, _In the Year 2525._

And as for being caught singing, well--the theory goes that nobody can take away your dignity if you don't permit them to do so. My theory runs along the lines of at least I have clean underwear and my teeth are brushed.

Ted came trotting in and made a wide circuit around the paint in order to say hi to Catherine, who made it a point to pet him.

"He looks like he's got some Border Collie in him," she murmured. I shrugged.

"I guess it's possible—I'm not much up on dog breeds. I did notice he's got a collar mark, so he's been somebody's pet."

"Neutered?"

"Him or me?" I asked, amused when Catherine went a little pink. "I can't vouch for the dog, but . . . "

" . . . Oh," she muttered, not looking at me. "Vasectomy?"

"Yeah," I wasn't sure why I was getting into this, but what the hell. "My family . . . we're genetic carriers of Canavan disease. When Beth and I got married, we'd already decided not to have kids, and that was one more reason to have it done."

"Ah." Catherine tore off another strip of masking tape and laid it over the edge of the light switch. It wasn't much of a reply, but her tone was gentle and I appreciated that. Ted flopped down next to Catherine's feet and presented his fuzzy belly to her. She laughed and squatted down to scratch him gently.

"Any dog that begs to have his tummy rubbed has definitely been someone's pet. If he still had a collar on I'd guess he was lost, but with no collar . . . " she mused. I carried the paint over to her.

"According to Ditmeyer, a lot of pets get dumped out here, mostly because it's one of the first turnoffs for the highway, and because it's close to the desert. He says he's got a lady friend who's willing to take them in and find them homes."

"Going to turn Ted over?" she asked me, and at the sound of his name the dog twisted to face me, paws still up in the air. Ever see a dog lie on his back and wag his tail? Very weird.

I reached down and ran a hand over his stomach. "Nah. It's been a long time since I had a dog, and it feels kind of nice to have one around again."

We painted for a while after that; working together was easy mostly because we'd done it enough to be comfortable with it. I handled everything over four feet up, and Catherine did everything below that while Ted supervised from the sofa. Between us we managed to get three of the walls done and were ready to tackle the last one when my stomach growled.

Catherine glanced at me, and Ted's ears perked up. I could feel my face going red, but I shrugged a little. "It's been a while since lunch."

"I could phone in an order for a pizza, if you think your stomach could handle it," she replied, cocking her head the way she does. Catherine had a smudge of paint on her left cheek, and all these wispy little bangs framing her face where her hair had gotten loose from her ponytail.

"Better get a plain cheese one. With anchovies. And mushrooms. Maybe some green onions and garlic," I told her solemnly.

"Anchovies, onions AND garlic," she echoed back at me, "Wow, is Ted going to love your breath."

I grinned. "Call it a bonding experience—the sooner he learns my preferences, the easier it will be for both of us."

"Master of the house," Catherine shot back, but she was grinning. "I'll get it, but only if you really think you can handle it."

I shook my head. "Not this time—I'll play it safe with plain cheese I guess."

"Smart man," she told me, getting her purse. One cell phone call to Pizza and Pipes later and we were waiting for the delivery of a Jumbo Mozzarella, Parmesan and Gouda pie, along with garlic sesame breadsticks and a green salad. I told her this one would be on me, since my cards had been activated, and she didn't argue this time.

The sun was getting low now, and I realized we'd been working for nearly four hours. Catherine started to clean up the painting stuff and I went to help her when we had a little accident.

Well, that is, she had an accident. In the process of picking up the open paint can, Catherine stepped back on the edge of the roller pan. It was a cheap aluminum one and crumpled, but the misstep threw her off balance, and suddenly a wave of Glidden Navajo White glopped down the front of her like liquid marshmallow. I rose up to help, but it was too late; she was coated from neck to knees in the stuff and looking utterly at a loss.

"Don't move—" I warned her and picked up the edges of the drop cloth, my brain running overtime as I thought about the logistics. "Okay, look—if you want to move over to the kitchen sink—"

"—Try bathroom, Mike—there's waaay too much of it for just the sink," she snapped; not that I blamed her as I rose up. Gingerly she held her arms out, looking down at herself. I looked down too, and noted how the paint had sort of molded her shirt on, and it must have been cold, because I could see some very obvious—

"I can shuffle along with the drop cloth, but every step is going to push paint through it. Damn it, I have another idea, but you need to turn around," Catherine continued, "Right now."

Damn it was right. I clicked in to what she was talking about and my blush was back, full force. I blinked as she set down the half-empty paint can.

"Catherine—"

"Look, If I leave my stuff here you can get it into the washing machine for me and a quick cycle through cold water should get most of it out, all right? I can take a shower and rinse the rest of it off me."

Practical. What she was saying was completely practical and yet I was still trying to get around the very immediate concept that CATHERINEWASABOUTTOTAKEHERCLOTHESOFF, so my attention span was a little fried. Then she glared at me, and I moved off, heading for the kitchen, staring at the cupboards and trying damned hard not to focus on the sounds coming from the living room behind me.

"If I . . . " she was muttering over the wet peeling sounds, " . . . leave any foot prints, just get them with a damp washcloth."

I nodded, hoping she could see that.

"When you hear the bathroom door slam, then you can turn around," Catherine ordered. I wasn't sure I could, not over the heavy thrum of my own damned pulse at this point.

God. I counted to ten, and then did it once more just to be safe. Somewhere around the first seven the bathroom door rattled out and I could breathe a little easier. I looked over my shoulder.

Drop cloth, paint and pile of whitewashed clothing. Gingerly I picked them up and carried them to the kitchen sink. Right before I turned on the water I made the mistake of looking down and realized I was staring at Catherine Willow's panties.

Damn it. I was staring INTO her panties. Little white silky wisp of practically nothing, and I knew they'd still be warm if I touched them.

They were.

Savagely I turned the water on, deliberately blasting the cold until my fingers were numb, desperately trying to will away my throbbing erection and dangerous thoughts while I rinsed out the soggy pile of clothing.


	6. Chapter 6

CATHERINE

Stupid. I don't know how it happened, but one minute I'm fine, and the next I'm saturated with paint. Bad enough I come off as a complete klutz, but I'm now in a worse situation.

Yeah, stripping and getting into the shower was a good idea, but what next? It's not as if I had anything to WEAR here. I didn't even have my emergency bag in the car—I had to take it out to make room for mom and Lindsay's stuff when I took them to the Amtrak station.

Shit.

The shower felt good, and I scrubbed up with the soap I remembered buying only a few days ago for Mike. Thank God, the paint came off easily, and the smell wasn't going to linger if I was lucky. I didn't need to shampoo, since my face didn't get splashed, but I made it a point to check my shoulders just in case.

When I was clean, I turned off the water and peeked around the curtain, checking the towel rack—two towels. Smallish and used; probably Ditmeyer's, but hey, anything worked right now. I dried off and wiped the mirror, glad to see my face was clean.

Then I took a deep breath and opened the door a crack. "Mike?"

"Way ahead of you," he rumbled from the other side, and just the sound of his voice; his calmness made me feel a hell of a lot better. He spoke up again. "I've got a shirt here—it's clean, and probably big enough to cover you up."

"Thanks."

I slipped it on and tried to work my hands through the sleeves. The whole thing hung down to my knees, and bagged like a fumigation tent; on the plus side, it smelled nice—clean and a little bit like Mike himself. I managed to get to the cuffs, and tried pushing them up but ended rolling them up. There was so much material that I looked like I had water wings on at each elbow.

It took a little work to button it up, and I kept feeling so . . . I'll admit it—aroused--to be wearing a man's shirt again. I'd given most of Eddie's back to him, and after he died, ended up tossing or Goodwilling the rest.

I think I gave one to Archie.

I hesitated about doing up the top button, and wished I had a belt or something, but I also couldn't hide in the bathroom forever either. For one thing, it meant Mike would be cleaning up all by himself, and for another, I'd just heard the doorbell and the pizza was here.

Besides, if Ditmeyer had been telling the truth about the appliances, then my clothes could be washed and dried in about an hour or so.

I wished I wasn't so nervous. I'd spent five years taking my clothes off in front of men on a regular basis, and thought I'd never lose the blunt edge I'd cultivated doing that, but I'd either gone soft, or Mike meant something to me.

I was pretty sure it was the latter. Deep in my stomach, I could feel those flutters of attraction; the ones I'd been ignoring since day one around Keppler. Hell of a time for them to kick in, but that's the way it is with magnetism I guess—there's physics, and then there's physical. Parts of me definitely wanted to get physical with the man, and the vibe I was getting back was that it wasn't a one-way deal, so that complicated things a little, too.

Making a last chiding face at myself in the mirror, I took a deep breath and headed out, trying to appear nonchalant.

Right.

Mike had just paid the delivery woman and was bringing the pizza in when he spotted me. He grinned a little; a lopsided one, then made it a point to turn away. "Interesting dress—"

"Yeah. Nothing says feminine like an Arrow shirt three sizes too big."

"You have to admit it would make a hell of an ad campaign," he commented over his shoulder as he carried the steaming box to the kitchen table. Ted was right at his heels—oh yeah, this was definitely a dog that had been in a household. Mr. Mooch circled under the table and settled in, waiting to be slipped a treat or two.

And Mike would do it, too; I could tell. Carefully I sat down on the chair on the opposite side, trying not to flinch at the cool vinyl. Mike looked at me and I could see him trying to be considerate even while his pupils widened and he cleared his throat. I've seen enough men struggling with arousal to know about where he was.

I folded my arms on the table. "What did you do with my stuff?"

"It's in the washer, cold, with a little detergent. I didn't see any fabric softener, but there are dryer sheets."

"You know about fabric softener?" I know my voice sounded disbelieving, and for a second Mike looked slightly insulted as he served up a big slice for me, then one for himself.

"Catherine, not every man is a knuckle-dragging domestic cretin you know. I even fold laundry," he commented, carefully serving up pizza on paper plates.

"Sorry . . . it's still not exactly the first thing I expect a guy to understand," I told him a bit contritely. "That and dishes."

I bit into the pizza. Fantastic—all those sweet cheeses melted together on a crisp crust. Very yummage, as Lindsay would say.

"Ah. Well dishes are another matter. I'm not that goo . . . " he sort of trailed off and I wondered why. I looked up at him, and it dawned on me that I had cheese dangling over my lower lip, and that the front of my shirt was sort of gapping open . . .

I watched as Mike deliberately closed his eyes, those long lashes against his cheekbones. "Top button. I'm not made of stone here, Willows," he tried to be funny, but his voice was this rasp; a little strangled and wheezy, and oh GOD did it ever turn me on. I felt heat flush through me, radiating out from my stomach, sweeping in a jolt right between my thighs.

I wanted him, yes I did, and even as I did up that button I knew it wasn't going to stay that way for long.

"Gotcha." I grabbed a napkin and wiped my mouth, then got generous with Ted, slipping him the rest of the slice. Mike opened his eyes again, looking relieved and disappointed. He fished out another slice but I shook my head and went for one of the breadsticks instead, going with the theory that the general shape of the thing could work in my favor.

Mike cleared his throat and ate his pizza, speaking a bit indistinctly between bites. "Not bad, for a plain cheese pie. There's a pizzeria in Trenton you might like—"

And we chatted, a little awkwardly, but eventually both of us loosened up, enjoying the food and regaining that comfort zone between us. I liked watching him eat; Mike was well-mannered and definitely seemed to have an appetite. I had most of the salad and only slipped one or two of the cucumber slices under the table.

Something about the way Mike kept looking at me kept me coming back to the thought that this attraction between us was pretty clearly going both ways. I wanted him, but I didn't want to screw things up with him either; the poor guy had already been through enough without me stepping in and messing him over once more, you know?

But damn it, that wonderful melted butter feeling inside me was driving me crazy. You know the one—when you look at someone special and you feel all weak and hot? It seems like it only happened for me around guys who were no good, but Mike was different—

Or was he? This was a man who was in a relocation program to protect him from retribution by bad cops—a man with a new identity and no past . . .

A man with amazing eyes and a low, growly voice . . .

I needed ice cream to cool down.

MIKE

Nothing like having dinner with a woman sitting there wearing one of your shirts and nothing underneath it. Normally this happens after, say, wild and satisfying sex—or so I've heard. Trust me to have the entire scenario backwards from the start.

Catherine was driving me nuts.

Somewhere deep down I suspected she'd been doing that since day one, and that I'd been deliberately avoiding any show of interest simply because it's been habit for me to deny my own libido. Part of it was guilt over Amy, and part of it was just a sense of avoidance of anything remotely normal in human relationships.

But now—I won't say Amy and Frank have been completely purged from my system— in the last few days I've been able to breathe. I've been able to sleep and relax and . . . feel . . . again.

That makes trying to ignore Catherine nearly impossible. Or not ignore her so much as deny her, because I can't anymore. Her presence, her sensuality, her laugh, her curvy little ass. I'm being stampeded by my own libido here, and it's throwing me for a loop in a bizarre and slightly painful way.

I was out of practice at whatever it was we were sort of doing here. This flirting . . . thing. This wanting and not knowing how to get, thing.

I shoved all of it aside when Catherine mentioned wanting ice cream, and went for the freezer, pulling out a pair of pint sitting on the inside of the door—Cone, Cone on the Range special packs by the look of them: Chocolate Fury, and Dragonfruit Garden. I stared at Catherine.

"Chocolate Fury?"

"A name to remember, huh? Trust me, it's goooood," she murmured in a hungry tone that tickled parts of me that were getting sensitive. She rose up and came padding around the table in her bare feet, reaching greedily for the container, but some imp of the perverse made me hold it up at arm's length far over her reach.

"Gimme," came her not so subtle demand. I shook my head.

"If I give this to you I probably won't get even a taste of it."

"I'll sha—hmmm—" Catherine broke off and pouted; I had her number all right, if that possessive gleam in her eye was the real thing.

She looked up at me, and right in that moment she leaned in, and I leaned down and ohhhyeah, my mouth handed on hers in a very deliberate kiss.

It was . . . there aren't really words to describe it. For one thing, Catherine had the softest, warmest lips I'd ever tasted. My entire body felt the jolt, head to toes instantly, and I dropped the ice cream—not that it mattered, apparently. It was like turning the focus on a microscope, bringing it down to that one searing point of contact between us, mouth to mouth pressing hard . . .

I don't know who moved first, but then there were tongues, and the flavors of cheese and sex mingling as I went from kissing Catherine to tasting her, deeply. Damn it was incredible . . . I wasn't thinking, just reacting in a purely instinctive way, going from rational man to male animal at mach speed.

Not that it was all me, thank God. Catherine was right there, backing me up against the fridge as she tried to plaster herself along my chest. I figured I'd help her out and pulled her closer, getting a nice press of curvy hips against mine. More kissing going on, and while I might have been out of practice, a lot was coming back with a ruthless thrill.

I like kissing in general. I liked kissing Catherine specifically, who seemed to appreciate my enthusiasm, judging by the little throaty moans and gurgles she was making in my mouth. Some of those sounds were probably me groaning right back at her, since she was rapidly becoming one of my favorite flavors. Forget chocolate or pistachio; I was getting hooked on CC Willows, big time.

And big time was actually a good way of putting it, because things were definitely making themselves known. While my brain might have been having a meltdown, everything below the waist was already enthused and impatient. I hadn't felt this precariously aroused in years and that too, I owed to Catherine. Endorphins, pheromones, sheer undeniable lust—it was all building and churning now, making me cup her face and kiss her, nibbling her mouth and nose, focusing on what made her squirm.

"Jesus . . . " she gasped when I kissed her ear, "That's sooo good—"

"Yeah," was about all I could manage coherently, considering I had so little blood flow in a northerly direction. Then she ground her slinky hips against me, and I had just enough synapses firing to remember that her panties were in the washing machine.

Okaaay, moving from launch pad to countdown now . . . my senses were nearly at overload and all we were doing was kissing.

Really good kissing. I know mentioned that already, but to be fair it had been a while since I'd done any. Then, rrrowr! Catherine went for my neck and the count down zoomed into the single digits.

Before things got messy, I needed to make sure she and I were in the same space program, if you get my metaphor. Somehow, I managed to pull back enough to speak, although it was really more of a grunt.

"Cath—"

"--DO me!" she was already working on my fly button and fumbling with the zipper.

No problem, that was pretty clear even through my lust-fogged mind. I scooped her up and carried her those two steps over to the kitchen table. I set her down and got back to kissing while my hands took off, unwrapping Catherine like a birthday present.

Buttons flew, clicking all over the brick floor and then suddenly there she was, sprawled out, gloriously naked and yeah--a real redhead. She already had one leg hooked around my hip and was tugging at my briefs when I saw her first reaction to . . . me.

"Oh GOD."

I KNEW that was going to happen.

CATHERINE

It couldn't be real.

That was my first reaction, honest to God. I'm not exactly a blushing virgin here, and in my various lines of work I've seen more male genitalia than the average career woman, but I was NOT prepared for the Mike Keppler experience.

Apparently, he was blessed with the F550 of dicks, and just the thought of what sort of power stroke it had was enough to leave me whimpering. Mike flinched a little at my initial reaction; right then I knew that I was going to have to make this good for both of us. I reached out to touch him.

I couldn't close my grip around his shaft, literally. Searing silky flesh over what felt like steel . . . I scooted down on the table, feeling trembly and hot and soo ready. His erection was damned big but I was willing to make the sacrifice. God, I'd been willing to make the sacrifice longer than I wanted to admit. I reached up with my free arm and hooked it around his neck, pulling him to me.

"Please, Mike—" I begged right before I kissed him again, tasting that fantastic flavor of hot man. He slid an arm around my lower back and rocked forward in one strong thrust---

I yelped. Not pain, but ohhhhmyGod such a strong, thick in-CRED-ible sense of yielding fullness. I was being pried; plundered, possessed, geez, any other word you can think of that starts with a P including perfect, pulsing and pounded.

We both sort of lost it then; Mike braced his free hand on the table and thrust, stroking into me relentlessly as I clung to his shoulders and kissed his brains out. I couldn't help it; he tasted wonderful, so delicious, and being SO completely taken was driving every damned part of my inner anatomy berserk—G spot, A spot, clitoris—I was already hyperventilating and feeling that lovely woozy warning that things were about to go nuclear.

Mike was grunting, shaking and swallowing hard, his eyes half-closed and so fucking sexy that I swear I was swooning.

I came, fast and hard, clamping down as the shudders rolled right through me, squeezing out a few excited cries that echoed in the kitchen, my hips rocking up against Mike's. Then he came and oh dear God in heaven I sure as hell felt THAT deluge boiling through me as we both sort of collapsed on the table there.

Good thing it was a sturdy table.

Anyway, I lay there, holding Mike, feeling good in ways I hadn't felt in years. I didn't care that my butt was on a pizza box, or that I probably looked like I'd hiked fifteen miles—too much of me was still on an endorphin, post climactic high. My arms were around him and I was loving the press of his big torso on mine.

Mike turned his head and looked at me. "God you're beautiful."

I laughed. "I don't think so—I'm just feeling really damned GOOD right now." My fingers moved along his damp spine, over the shirt as it clung to his back, and I kissed him again, this time with less frenzy and more love.

Did I say love? No, tenderness. Just some sweet tenderness for this amazing moment. "You're wonderful. You make me feel so good right now—"

He laughed in that low, self-deprecating way he had, and it faded to a little groan. That's when I remembered and could have kicked myself.

"Mike? Oh geez, did we rip your stitches?"

"Can't tell—" he commented. "Not really feeling any desire to move and find out."

"Miiiiiiike—" I growled a little at him, running a hand down to where I remembered his bandage was. I touched it through the shirt and he winced, so I kissed his big pointed nose. "Come on—we need to wash up anyway, so I can check on things in the shower."

That seemed to perk him up; he grinned enough to show me his dimples. "You've got a deal, CC."

"No, oh no, you are NOT getting away with calling me CC—when I told you about my middle name it was strictly for information, not use."

"Too bad," he told me in that solemn way he does when he's teasing, "And here I was going to tell you MY nickname in exchange, too . . . " He began to pull away, but I grabbed his shoulders again, smirking at him.

God he was adorable. His hair was wet and curling, his cheeks flushed a bit, but it was the sweetness of his smile that just killed me. I batted my eyes at him and Mike laughed, softly.

"I will tell you, I promise, but let's move this off the table, okay?"

So we got to the bathroom and into the shower together and I got my first good look at naked Mike. Oh yum--yeah there was a lot here that was worth looking at: big shoulders, narrow hips, and furry in all the right places. It's always a hot little shock to me to remember that men DO have hair, and that it's so different from mine.

Mike had dark, silky hair in his armpits, delicate curls in a lovely carpet all over his chest, a long trail leading down his tummy and thick, springy fur crowning his groin. I noted at even deflated, he was still pretty impressive down there and he caught me looking. His expression was definitely wry as he reached for the soap.

"If you're looking for tan lines, forget it; any prolonged exposure to the sun makes me burn and peel," he announced.

"Same here," I replied, since it's pretty much true. As a redhead I've got almost no melanin in my skin. Sun is a problem in a place like Vegas, so working the night shift helps. I reached for him and helped tug his bandages off; the stomach one was fine, but the back on was a little bloody. "Looks like we overdid it."

"Worth it." Mike grinned. "Any injury right up through decapitation would be worth this."

I kissed him for that—hey, wouldn't you? It was a hell of a compliment and I appreciated it. Kissing him meant pressing up against him; a move both of us seemed to like a lot. Between the hot water and the cool tiles the two of us managed to soap each other up, slowly, murmuring and kissing as we did so.

Intimate. It was just so . . . intimate, and somewhere inside I felt the sort of contentment I hadn't had in years. Yes it was about sex, of course, but there were other things to it too, and this lovely closeness was one of them.

We got out, and there was only one towel on the rack. Mike dried me off over my protests, doing himself afterwards. He actually hung the towel up to dry, too, instead of just dropping it.

Ohh, this man was racking up the points.

I insisted on bringing the first aid kit to bed, and made Mike lie down while I bandaged him up again. He lay on his side, amused as I patched his back. "You know Catherine, if all nurses were naked and got into bed with their patients, I'm positive more men would be willing to go to the hospital," he told me over his shoulder.

"Depends on the treatment now, doesn't it?" I reminded him mockingly, "if this was a prostate exam—"

"—Then the question would be how much is the copay?" came his quick reply. I snorted and made him roll over on his back as I set the first aid kit back on the nightstand. Both of us heard Ted wander into the bedroom. He circled the room then sighed and trotted out again to the living room. Mike laughed.

"Do you know he actually rolled the ice cream pints around the kitchen floor? Good thing they didn't break open."

"Herding instinct," I replied, snuggling down against Mike's side. "I'm sure the noises we were making had him thinking there was a wolf attack going on."

"Either that or he was worried one of us would step on the cartons." Mike slid an arm around my shoulders and rested his chin on my head. We fit just right, and it felt good. Cool sheets, darkness and quiet. Really, really good.

I remembered something. "Hey, what WAS your nickname anyway?"


	7. Chapter 7

MIKE

I winced. This was not something I really wanted to share, but I had made a promise, and considering where I was--in bed naked with Catherine, oh yeah—I figured it was about the best setting I was going to get. I cleared my throat.

"Back in school the guys on the team called me zwanzig—twenty in German. Had to do with the dimensions you may have noticed back in the kitchen."

Catherine buried her face against my chest and I felt her giggles muffled against my skin there. I grumbled. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, get it out of your system."

"Twenty? Okay, I'll admit it's intimidating, but I'm not sure I get how it adds up to twenty—" she chortled, and I was about to gripe when her hand slid down my stomach and sort of took the matter in hand.

Ooooh.

"Dimensions," I repeated and managed to at least sound calm. "Eight inches in length times two and a half inches in diameter. Most of the time they just called me Zig, which wasn't too bad."

"I see. So you've always been . . . gifted."

"Oy, gifted. Genetics gifted me with a schwanstucker like this along with a compelling reason NOT to breed. The universe is full of those little ironies sometimes," I sighed. Under the sheet, Catherine's fingers were getting a swift and serious reaction all right. I cleared my throat and she giggled.

"Distracting you, am I?"

"You could say that."

"I could do a lot more than say it—" she informed me, sleekly straddling my hips, settling astride my nicknames' sake and the move was enough to make me grunt happily; perfect weight, pressing nicely.

"You think you're going to be in charge this time, hmm?" I asked rhetorically. She slithered down to kiss me, and that felt great too. Seriously, this kissing was just incredible. Catherine might be making the big moves, but I had a few of my own.

"Aren't I?" she laughed when we broke apart. I shook my head, and gently lifted her hips. Petite—that's really the word for Catherine. She's compact and all woman, definitely, but petite.

"Not this time, babe—" and I pushed into her very, very slowly.

At the risk of sounding like an egotist, I knew what I was doing. One of the very few good pieces of advice I'd ever gotten about sex was that if you were a guy on the bottom, you could give a lot more pleasure by going slowly. I knew Catherine was probably sore, and I did want it to be good, so I crossed my wrists behind the smooth small of her back and just held her there, nicely impaled.

She was shivering, hands braced on my chest, looking down and me with her mouth puckered in the most beautiful little 'O' of surprise. "OhhhGod---"

"Shhhhh—" I told her, and very, very gently flexed my hips. I'd never have this kind of control if we hadn't taken the edge off, but we had and I was glad I could do this for her. Not that I had a LOT of control mind you—Catherine's slick body was squeezing, making me just on the edge of crazy. I cupped her butt and pulled back, just the smallest bit, then thrust up again, ever so gently.

Slow and sweet, like the way honey pours out of a jar, that's how we made love. Catherine wanted to go faster, but after a few minutes, she relaxed into the subtle rhythm, moving in a lazy counterpart to my small thrusts and all of a sudden, the two of us shifted into hot perfection. She kissed me, rounding her back and licking my neck, biting at my nipples while I cupped her breasts and tasted every part of her I could get my mouth on, and the whole time we rode out the sweet strokes, both of us building up big time.

Pretty soon I knew we were right on the critical edge. I kissed her once more, then took her hand and guided it down between us, sighing. "Do it, Cath, come onnnn sweetheart—"

She sighed, then arched up and slid her fingers down, stroking against herself while I watched, and God it was stunningly gorgeous. The sight of Catherine Willows riding my cock and wantonly rubbing herself to orgasm pushed me right over the edge; I thrust hard gushing, grabbing her luscious ass as I drained myself deep within her juicy tightness. Somewhere in the middle of all that I felt her body squeezing back, and heard her gasping my name---

She collapsed on me and I held her, needing her so much.

We slept, not even letting go of each other, and for the first time, I didn't remember my dreams.

I woke up about three hours later and staggered off to the bathroom, half-asleep. I managed to clean myself up a bit in the dark and came back, then looked at Catherine in my bed.

She was sprawled on her stomach, sheet bunched up over her shoulders, burrowed down into the pillow, but the sight that made me grin from ear to ear was her round naked little ass, uncovered and sleek in the semi-darkness. A perfect butt, and I've never considered myself an ass man, but visions like this could bring me into the congregation. I leaned down, bracing my weight on my knuckles on the mattress and kissed one smooth cheek.

"Hey!" came the sleepy protest. I kissed the other cheek, just to be fair.

"You've got a great tuchus."

"Ass-kisser," she laughed back and rolled over. I cocked my head.

"Yours; definitely. Move over."

Catherine did, and I took her spot, all warm and perfect while she got up to use the bathroom. I heard her moving around afterwards, and just as suddenly, a pang hit me in the chest, so I called out to her. "You're coming back to bed, right?"

"You . . . want me to?"

For some reason the way she asked it—with that little tremble of genuine uncertainty in her voice—made me squeeze my eyes shut, and I had to get my voice under control. It took a second and I know I sounded gruff, but damn it--

"Damn right I do. Come on back here before you freeze."

Then came her laugh, all soft and pleased, and I knew that whatever else happened, Catherine would be here. "Okay, just let me let Ted out—he's dancing here."

"Fine. Just--don't take took long okay?"

"'kay."

I heard her moving through the apartment, talking to Ted, then making her way back a few minutes later, and when she slipped back into bed she was very cool. Immediately she draped herself all over my chest and I flinched a little.

"Sorry," she murmured, not meaning it at all as she burrowed closer. I grunted.

"You are SO lucky I'm a nice guy, willing to share my valuable body heat."

"Got enough of it to spare, Zig."

"Hey!"

"Fair play, buster. You call me CC, I'm going to call you Zig."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you've got a cruel streak?" I murmured back, "Exploiting a personal confidence like that."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're too damned cute for your own good? Also, you're really comfortable to sleep on."

"Just call me Mattress Mike," I grinned in the dark. She smiled against my chest; I could feel it, and gradually we drifted off to sleep again.

CATHERINE

Mornings are ugly. They're the hardest part of sex, because they're the make or break point for a relationship, you know? In the dark, in the heat of the night everything's wonderful and fun, but morning is when you have to take stock on what's happened and see if things are going to be a one-time thing, or if they might be something more.

I wasn't sure how I felt.

Mike had been—was, wonderful. And I wasn't just thinking that because of the laundry and dishes as well as the mind-blowing sex either. But was I ready to think about anything more than right now? I had Lindsay to consider, and Mom wasn't getting any younger, and I still had seven years on the mortgage to go . . . aaaaand I had no idea how Mike felt about me.

Not really.

I had to be a big girl and bear in mind that although Mike was a great guy and hell in bed, he had plenty of his own baggage to deal with, and God knew how long he was going to be in Vegas anyway. From the way Ditmeyer had been talking, the Justice Department would probably send Mike off to some Podunk town thousands of miles away just to keep him out of the mainstream for a while.

Damn it. Wouldn't it be just my luck to FINALLY find a nearly perfect guy just to have him shipped away?

I'd just have to cope. In the meantime, I'd keep it light—no point in weighing Mike down with any excess baggage.

So I got up and made coffee and stuck some waffles in the oven on a cookie sheet since the kitchen didn't have a toaster. Idly I moved to pick up a few shirt buttons from the kitchen floor, grinning at the memory of how they'd gotten there when SOME one bumped into me from behind when I was bent over.

"Hey!" I protested. Mike's hands had slipped under the shirt and were curling around my bare hips. He made a happy humming sound.

"I think this is what the Discovery Channel calls 'presenting behavior'," came his rumble. "I approve."

"I'm NOT presenting, I'm cleaning. I also thought you didn't watch television." My argument wasn't very strong, since Mike's fingers had moved to push up my shirt and slowly begin toying along my exposed back. I glared up at him over my shoulder. He grinned down at me.

"Sorry, but snarling only makes you that much hotter," Mike announced gently, rubbing himself against me. "And seriously, Catherine-- I'm in love with your ass."

I couldn't help myself and laughed, especially because his sincere expression was shifting into something a lot more directly compelling. Mike's beard stubble and tousled hair made him look dangerously sexy, particularly since he wasn't wearing a shirt, either. I rubbed back against him.

"You're horny."

"Pretty much a no-brainer there, in more ways than one," he admitted wryly, leaning over my back and breathing into my ear. "Not helped much by the vision of a beautiful woman bent over showing off her delectable anatomy. Call me old-fashioned, but a spectacular sight like that does tend to make me think about sex."

We ended up burning the waffles.

Later, after another shower, when I finally got dressed, I came back out to find Mike sprawled on the sofa, feeding the lesser charred bits to Ted, who seemed to like carbon in his diet. Mike grinned at me.

"You look so different in clothes—I'm not sure I like the unnecessary layers."

I leaned over the back of the sofa and swatted his arm, trying to grin but it was hard. I had to leave and I didn't want to, not at all. My inner self wanted nothing more than to hang out the rest of the day with him, finish painting the walls and make dinner, curl up and read together—all that . . . couples stuff.

But if I did that, I'd be getting attached, and I'd already promised myself I wasn't going to let that happen if I could help it. So I took a deep breath got ready to tell a little fib. "Listen, I hate to paint and run, but I've got some errands to do, so I'm going to take off and get those finished. Think you can handle a roller brush by yourself?"

Mike shot me a quick glance, frowning a little and nodded. "Sure. Most of what's left is trim along the windows anyway. Are you planning on coming back?"

Damn him for being so . . . direct. It's always harder to lie to someone who looks at you trustingly. I ran a hand through my hair.

"Sure I'm coming back—I just don't know when, yet." I told him, trying to smile, and feeling it was looking pretty bad. He didn't say anything and I could feel it then; that first little hint of hurt. I spoke up again. "For one thing, Ted's going to need a vet check."

"True—" Mike murmured, reaching out to pet the dog. "And tags."

He rose up and cocked his head at me; I had the weirdest feeling that under it all Mike had some idea of why I was putting some space between us, and that should have made me feel better, but it didn't. We walked out the door together and he saw me to my car without saying much. I hugged him and he hugged back, and THAT was good, but we didn't kiss.

As I drove off, I noticed Wally's car was just pulling in, and I squirmed a little at the thought. Would he know I'd spent the night?

Probably.

Who was I kidding? Of course he'd know, and given THAT assumption, I was probably going to get a not-so-subtle lecture about discretion.

I scowled at myself in the rearview mirror and wondered if it was too early to go home and have a drink.

MIKE

And so, Catherine left. I watched her go and decided it was for the best, really. We'd stepped over a line by sleeping together—she knew it and I knew it. It was probably better to just stop here and appreciate the time we'd had together. Not dwell on the long term, just stay at the level we'd been at before.

I hate it when my head says one thing and my guts say another.

But honestly, what exactly the hell did I have to offer her anyway? What the hell was I going to do from here on out? Sooner or later Ditmeyer might clue me in on what the Justice Department had in mind for my future, but until then, I was stuck in limbo for the duration.

And Catherine—she had a lot more to lose than I did. I was already dead and gone from the record, now a new man: no debts, no history, no ties. Catherine had a daughter, a career, and a life waiting for her. Maybe even another man somewhere, which wasn't a happy thought, but entirely possible. A woman like that would have them three deep in any bar.

I would have been more depressed, but the afterglow of three rounds of spectacular sex made it hard to get the pity party started. Right now, I was a little sore, and fairly relaxed, so I finished up the trim on the windows, talking steadily to Ted, who brought me the occasional lizard to hold up his end of the conversation. The amazing thing is that he never killed them; they were always a little spit covered and dizzy, but alive and whole.

Maybe he had retriever in him too.

Anyway, I finished painting about mid-afternoon and went to take a short nap, which was hell when the sheets and pillows smelt of sex and Catherine. I ended up moving out to the sofa and displacing Ted, who insisted on sleeping on my legs. We balanced that way for a while and I fell into a sort of a half-doze.

I was getting depressed. If Catherine came back—and it was starting to look more and more like 'if' and not 'when'—then it was probably going to be out of pity or guilt rather than anything else. She and I both knew she was my one connection to the outside world right now.

There was a knock at the door, and I nearly kicked Ted in my rush to answer the door. Ditmeyer stood there looking up at me, a foil covered plate in his hand. He held it out.

"Bacon and peanut butter chip dip."

"Oh."

My lack of enthusiasm didn't seem to bother him; he marched past me and looked around the living room, nodding a little bit. "Not bad on the paint job."

"Thanks. I had help."

"Good." Turning to me, he motioned to the kitchen. "Let's talk, Mikey—"

The last person who'd called me Mikey had been Frank, so it didn't help my mood any. I followed Ditmeyer in and settled into a chair across from him while he uncovered the dip and rummaged around for the bag of potato chips. Ditmeyer dug in and ate one before speaking.

"Got a possible spot for you. Hawthorn. It's about two and a half hours north of here, and they need a CSI. Not a big place—they've got a population of about a little over three thousand or so, but they could use a CSI up that way to cover them and all the outlying places within a hundred miles."

I stared at the dip, then looked at Ditmeyer. "The boonies, Nevada style."

He shrugged, carefully. "If you like. Right now the only other two possible openings are a suburb south of Detroit, and a backlab assignment in Langley. If you go to Detroit you'll have to leave tonight, and if you want Langley, you'll have to take recertification in all labs."

I thought about it. Detroit was last on my list—I wasn't quite ready to haul up that quickly yet. Langley had more appeal, since it would probably be a first step towards the shift to profiling. Hawthorne though—that was still in state, and not that far a drive from Vegas . . . I'd probably be able to keep Ted, too. "Do I have to choose right now?"

"Only if you want Detroit," Ditmeyer sighed. "Which I'm hoping you don't, if you don't mind advice."

"Any reason why?"

"Bad blood going on there right now. An IA cleared out a big scandal and the department's cleaning house. That means even though we've set up a new identity for you, there's a chance the news is going to keep an eye on the department up there and I'm not crazy about the idea of you being on tape somewhere."

I nodded; that made sense. "I wasn't that thrilled about Detroit anyway."

"Good," Ditmeyer mumbled through another chip. I finally broke down and had one, just to keep him company.

Weird. The dip was actually good—who would have guessed?

Ditmeyer waved a chip at me. "Take Hawthorne, Mike. You can keep the dog and you'll be boss of your own lab up there. Two techs under you; one day, one night. While you're there you can work on a thesis to fast track you through a Psych degree."

I grunted, took another chip. Ditmeyer continued. "I'm telling you, it's probably the best you're going to get if you and Willows are meant to be."

"Ditmeyer---" I put as much menace as I could into my voice and it must have been a good bit since he flinched a little. But he kept talking anyway.

"Oh knock it off, Mike. The woman's got a thing for you, and if I'm not mistaken the damned feeling is mutual. I dunno if either one of you is going to 'fess up to it, but it's there and you're gonna have to deal. Me, I'm a romantic at heart. I figure if you take Hawthorn then you and Willows have a shot at maybe making things work out. If not . . . then Hawthorn's far enough away to start over."

I stared at him. "I take it this isn't new to you."

"Nope. Not the relocation, and not the emotional dilemma," Ditmeyer admitted lightly. He slipped a chip under the table, adding, "Minute I saw Willows I knew she had it for you—My Dusie had the same look the second time I saw her, when she was of legal age and everything."

I stared at him; Ditmeyer grinned, that mustache waggling a bit as he shook his head. "Loooong story, but suffice it to say I'm the consort of Princess Deux ex Machina Fu-Cortez of the sovereign nation of San Sebastian and leave it at that, okay? Two kids, three grandkids so I'm big on the happily ever after thing."

"That sounds," I told him slowly, "Like a three beer story."

Ditmeyer's grin got broader. "Come on over then, and bring the dip."


	8. Chapter 8

CATHERINE

I was . . . sore. And the worst part about it was that every time I felt a twinge, I grinned. Couldn't help myself—the sex had been really, really GOOD, and parts of me were greedy for more. My mother had once said that there was a streak of wild woman in me and I suspected she'd said it because it had come from her. In any case, it sure fit because I've wrestled with my libido all throughout my life.

I did MORE cleaning (Lindsay's room was not to be believed) and was debating about going back to Mike's when I got called in. I went, thinking it might be a break on the Miniature killer or just an 'all hands on deck' sort of situation, but instead, Ecklie met me at the lobby and told me I needed to clean out Mike Keppler's furnished apartment.

Great.

But Ecklie pointed out that I was the person who'd been closest to him while Mike had been here, and that since the ex-wife wasn't coming out, that someone needed to the job.

I shot him a look, but sighed; Ecklie wasn't about to do it, and he DID have a point. So I got the address and went over to finish the cover story, thinking that at the very least I could bring back whatever wardrobe and personal belongings the guy had.

The place as a little condo, just west of the Strip, fairly new, fairly quiet. I talked to the manager, who was more than glad to let me get to it—the sooner I was gone, the sooner he could re-rent the place. I let myself into the ground floor apartment and looked around, getting a personal and professional look at the layout.

The stuff supplied by the management—the furniture and décor—were the standard, impersonal sort of sturdy but standard stuff you see in a thousand hotel rooms. Wooden entertainment unit and light beige sofa suite in the living room. Unremarkable kitchenette, a few basics in the cupboards. There were traces of life here and there, like the coffee cup in the sink and the _Sport Illustrated _issues scattered over the tabletop.

The air had gone stale, and under it I smelled a hint of garbage that meant the trash hadn't been taken out. Because I wanted to check out the bedroom, I punished myself by taking the kitchen first, cleaning out the fridge and throwing away the meager holdings. The pantry came next, and I noted that Mike was a Cheerios man.

Good to know.

After that I boxed up the dry good staples, the magazines and towels and paper goods, carrying them out to my car in two trips. Then I took on the bathroom, pleased to note that the towel-hanging I'd observed before wasn't a fluke. I packed up Mike's shaving kit, cleaned out his shampoo and soap, packed away the towels and turned to the bedroom.

Semi-made bed. I stripped off the sheets and left the pillows, not knowing if those were his or not. He'd dropped his dirty laundry in a canvas duffle on the other side of the dresser, and had his three other suits neatly on hangers in the closet. On the floor, one other pair of dark lace-up shoes.

My heart was breaking.

No framed photos, no ticket stubs or guitar picks or phone numbers or post cards. No souvenirs, no memories, no . . . life. I looked in the drawers and found shirts, socks and underwear. All that remained here were shadows of a man fading away, bit by bit.

I packed up everything in the big black suitcase from the closet shelf, trying to hurry before I started crying. And THAT was stupid, because I knew perfectly well that the big lug was alive just across town as a matter of fact, but the utter bleakness of Mike's shallow existence here was depressing the hell out of me.

He needed to get a life, and deep down I promised myself that he would get one. Starting with the dog, and maybe a better wardrobe.

I lugged the case out to my car and came back, looking around for anything else. The canvas laundry sack was all that was left, and I picked it up. A shirt slipped out and I grabbed it, feeling the coolness of the cotton. I brought it to my nose, and that wonderful scent of Mike came back in full sweetness—the hint of sweat, the male musk, the faint traces of Old Spice aftershave . . .

I lost it. I dropped my butt on the bed and bawled my eyes out into that shirt, and for the longest time I had no idea, no CLUE why the hell I was crying. But I sobbed away, feeling all the grief as if I'd really lost him ebbing through me, and I knew parts of my pain were for Eddie and Sam too. Jesus I'd lost a lot of men and hadn't even faced up to it, you know?

And all three of them had been shot.

So I cried, and hugged the shirt and eventually, when I began to slow down into hiccups, I took a deep breath and lay back on the mattress for a long time, staring at the stucco ceiling.

I might possibly be in love with Mike Keppler.

This was . . . probably not good.

Parts of it were good. The joking and working together and yeah the lovemaking. Those factors were terrific, no getting around that.

But dear GOD, even if he felt the same way about me—which wasn't a guarantee—how the hell could we even begin to make it work? And trying to explain him to Mom and Lindsay—that would take some careful doing . . .

I laughed at myself for lying there in my smeared mascara, plotting away on the logistics of how to keep Mr. Mike 'Zig' Keller nee Keppler in my life. For the moment, I had it, and I had it bad for the man.

And damn it, it felt good.

After a while I got up, washed my face and fixed my makeup. I cleared out the rest of Mike's things and handed the key over to the manager, then drove home. Ecklie had told me that Mike's ex had wanted his stuff donated to Goodwill, but I had a better idea. I took note of the sizes as I did the laundry, and when it was all done folded it and loaded it back in my car.

Then I took a deep breath, made a quick stop at PetSmart, and from there, headed for Mike.

MIKE

Ditmeyer was a Grolsch man, and that was fine by me. I'm not a beer snob, and a good Dutch brew went down just as easily as anything else. We sat at his kitchen table and he poured out the amazing and somewhat unbelievable story of his courtship of Her Serene Princess Deus Ex Machina Fu-Cortez while I listened, ate dip and downed beer.

"San Sebastian's this rocky island off the coast of California—between San Luis Obispo and Monterey. It's just outside international waters, and because of that, the folks that live there have established their own country on it. I know you're thinking it's impossible, but bear with me, it happened like this. Back at the end of World War Two the US Navy wanted to mount a lookout tower there but were told by the eleven natives that couldn't, unless the US officially recognized San Sebastian as a sovereign state. San Sebastian sent a petition for national recognition to FDR, and before he left for Warm Springs Georgia, the idiot signed it, along with everything else sitting on his desk."

"He signed it?" I asked, a little surprised. Ditmeyer nodded.

"He did—I doubt he even read it, just wanted to clear out for his vacation, you know? And by the time Truman came into office, the Navy still wanted to mount a lookout post, but they didn't have the diplomatic authority to deal with a newly recognized nation, so the buck got passed until someone had the bright idea to send yours truly out there to broker the deal. They figured the Justice department could smooth the crazies over, and I was still wet behind the years so they chose me. So off I go to this island that's about three miles long and maybe two miles wide, to talk to the King and Queen of San Sebastian, Duke and Maisie."

I laughed; I mean who wouldn't? "Duke and Maisie—you're joking, right?"

Ditmeyer shook his head and took a long pull off his bottle. "Nope. They were the latest members in a dynasty that had begun with a shipwrecked Chinese sailor and a Spanish scion who was washed overboard almost a hundred and fifty years earlier. Anyway, the POINT of my story is that I met Dusie when she was fifteen and I was twenty two and it was annoyance at first sight. She was a skinny little goof who knew a lot more about my business than I wanted her to know. I got the tower negotiated and didn't come back to San Sebastian for nearly four years—the McCarthy hearings had sort of taken up some of my time—and when I did, nineteen year old Dusie was a hell of a lot more interesting."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah. Not so skinny in a few places anymore. So I helped get her admitted to college on the mainland and made it a point to check in on her . . . you know how it goes. By the time we figured out we were crazy about each other, her mom was planning the wedding. Then King Duke puts his foot down. No wedding."

I scowled, and finished my beer. "Why?"

Ditmeyer shook his head sadly. "Dusie was his heir, and Duke was worried that if we got married, I'd dissolve the monarchy and let the US annex San Sebastian. It was all a matter of politics with Duke, and I could see his point, but it drove us crazy for a couple of years there. Then Dusie tells her parents that she'll marry me in a church, with or without their blessing and they can shove a coconut where the sun don't shine."

"She got disowned?"

"Nope. Maisie comes to visit regularly, and we go there for the holidays. Duke and I take turns manning the grill and swapping stories . . . but I'm not a son-in-law, not officially. I'm Dusie's consort, in a sort of Morganatic arrangement. And again, my point is that it's been . . . " Ditmeyer thought hard, "Sheesh, nearly fifty two years since we've been getting married."

"You mean since you GOT married," I told him with a grin. Grolsch is good beer, and we'd each had two by now. The dip was nearly gone too. Ditmeyer laughed, sounding like a coyote with bronchitis.

"Nah, Mikey, we get married all the time. We've hit every chapel in Vegas, and most of the churches and temples around here. At least once every two months or so we both get sentimental and do it all again. I think we've been married in just about every major religion and a bunch of minor ones as well."

I just stared at him, and he rubbed his face with one hand, clearly embarrassed. Though his palm he muttered, "Soooooooo I get mushy every now and then—sue me."

I shook my head, and smiled. "Nah. It's . . . amazing. Just very good to see that some people really do live happily every after. Very reassuring."

Ditmeyer grinned back at me and gave a little shrug. "I lucked out, Mike. Ran into the perfect woman for me early on and never had to think twice about it. I've got colleagues who've been divorced, remarried, out of the scene, into ménage a trois, you name it, but all I can say is that I honest to God lucked out."

"Got a picture?" I asked, curious about this Dusie. Ditmeyer pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to a shot there of a woman in a grey ballgown with a tiara and sash, holding a scepter and smiling at the camera.

She looked like Audrey Hepburn crossed with Tinkerbelle—pixie haircut, pixie looks, a touch exotic in a way you couldn't pin down. I grinned. "Beautiful."

"Very. And feisty and smart and unbelievably funny," Ditmeyer murmured, looking at the picture a moment before putting his wallet away. I glanced around the kitchen and the question came to mind, but before I could ask it, Ditmeyer followed my gaze and sighed.

"This one is my LEGAL residence, and I keep it for appearances. I hang out here, when I've got tough cases, or Dusie goes back to the island with the kids for a vacation. And the income from the unit next door isn't too bad either."

"How many kids?"

"Two, all grown up. Got three grandkids now, which still tickles the hell out of me."

We both heard the car pull up next door, and Ditymeyer gave a nod. "She's back. I knew she would be. You go talk to her and I'm going to clean up here and start moving some paperwork for Hawthorn."

"I didn't say yes," I protested, but not with much oomph. Ditmeyer shook his head, glancing at me under his shaggy white eyebrows.

"No, but you will—"

I stepped out of Ditmeyer's half of the duplex and ambled over to mine, finding Catherine on the doorstep, a pet store bag in one hand and her sunglasses in the other.

_What the hell_, I decided. _Why not?_ I grabbed her, dipped her, kissed her.


	9. Chapter 9

CATHERINE

Woah! I was not expecting that, but I certainly wasn't going to complain—I haven't had something that . . . unexpected happen in a long time—if you don't count having to fake the death of a colleague and nurse him back to health.

I blinked up at Mike, who had beer on this breath and a twinkle in his eye. "What brought that on?"

"You looked . . . dippable. You like to dance?" he asked when me pulled me upright again. I shot him a doubtful look and opened the door to his place, stepping inside. The vinegar smell was fading, and the living room DID look brighter, even in the afternoon light.

"Dance?" Okay, I wasn't really holding up my end of the conversation, but I also hadn't expected to be greeted that way either, and it had me thrown for a loop here.

"Yeah, dance—you know, fox trot, samba, waltz—dance," he commented. "Real dancing that is; two people moving to music with sentimental or witty lyrics," Mike asked following me in.

"I've been known to dance, yeah. What's this all about?" My curiosity was peaking now, and the mischievous look in Mike's eyes was getting to me. He laughed in that low rumble of his and nodded, as if he already knew my answer.

"Good to know. In a town like this there has to be a ballroom somewhere. You hungry?"

Again with the questions! He didn't look nearly as mopey as I felt, and a little irritation was starting to build up in me. I mean, I'd cried over this man, and here he was talking about dancing! So I dropped my hands on my hips and glared up into his face.

"We need to talk—" I told him. Mike slipped his arms around me and oooohmyGOD! He heaved me over his shoulder in one swoop, making me drop the bag with the collar and rawhide chips all over the floor. I pounded on his back a little, but I was laughing too.

"Nope. We need to go in the bedroom and kiss a lot. That's a much better plan, C.C."

"Mike!" But it was useless; he lumbered off in the direction of the bedroom and I was too worried about being dropped to fight too much. He slid me off his shoulder, flopped me onto the bed, then leaned down over me, and really, how was I going to resist that? I'm as liberated as the next woman—probably more so—but every now and then one of the He-Man moves actually does make me melt.

He loomed over me, but instead of going for my shirt, the way I thought he would, Mike gently kissed my neck, just under my ear. That special tickly place that I can't resist, and I squirmed.

"Missed you. I guess that's corny, but I really did," he breathed along my skin. I turned my head to kiss him, but his face was against mine already, and he smelled so good.

"Missed you too—a lot, because I had to go close up your apartment—" I told him softly. He sighed in this gusty breath along my neck, which was hot.

"Sorry about that—"

"I'm not," I told him while I slipped my arms around his shoulders. Nothing like a big warm blanket of Mike to make things feel a lot better. Just having him here, holding him soothed me, and I tugged until he was draped over me, that solid weight of him pinning me nicely.

"I'm squashing you—" he protested, but I noticed his hips were moving against me. I laughed.

"Mmmmmm—" I rocked my hips back and there we were, rubbing together on the bed, having fun with friction. Felt very good—for me at least, and given the little helpless groan from Mike I was willing to think he was getting something out of it was well.

"We're bad—" I told him, and nipped his earlobe. He slid an arm around me and rolled, pulling me with him until we were side by side on the bed this time, and I couldn't believe the look in his eyes. Tender. Aroused. In a word—happy.

"Yeah, but in the best sort of way. And you're right, we need to talk. There's a lot to talk about. For instance, I don't know your favorite color, or movie, I have no idea if you hang toilet paper over or under on the roll, and I'm clueless about how you feel about global warming. On the other hand . . . " and his was moving under my shirt now, sliding up my stomach and making me squirm, " . . . I'm pretty sure I could talk you into lying back and letting me go down on you."

"Oh," I squeaked, because he was absolutely right on that last one, oh yeah. All my good intentions evaporated at that point, and between kisses, I started to undo my jeans, but Mike just pushed my hands away and lifted my shirt.

"No need to rush—" he rumbled at me, and that just made the melty woozy feeling that much stronger. "My pleasure—"

Somehow, I doubted it was going to be as much his as it was going to be mine, but my ability to point that out was disappearing too. Who knew that Mike Keppler was a master at slow, languid kisses? Dear God, I had a hell of a time trying to stay still while he meandered over my chest and stomach. Such warm lips, and still I was all goosebumpy. Part of my brain—the still functioning part—wanted to protest that more sex was not the way to get a handle on this relationship, but the rest of my body was clamoring for it to shut up, and it did.

Mike kissed each hipbone, and undid my pants, then tugged them off while nuzzling my navel, which drove me nuts—that pointed nose of his was to be reckoned with. He lipped his way lower, and brushed one big hand over the tops of my thighs and smiled in a very dangerous way. I know this because I propped myself up on my elbows to watch him.

"You smell nice," he told me. I grinned—a little crookedly, but given how utterly turned on I was, I'm surprised I had any coherent function. Then he bent down and OhGod. . . kissed me, big hot tongue flicking right along the seam in one long, light stroke.

Instantly my hips arched up, and he sort of laughed. "Like that?"

"Uhmmmg—" was the only thing I could say. Apparently it was the right thing, because he dimpled at me briefly and turned back to my legs, lightly pushing them apart and murmuring in approval.

I closed my eyes and sighed, losing myself in the feel of his hands stroking the insides of my thighs, tickling and brushing against the curls between them. Mike kissed all along my fluff and then slid fingers along the inner folds and nuzzled me there.

God, I was hyperventilating, and so charged I knew I was going to go off like a rocket if things got any more intense---

MIKE

Women are an amazing gift. I happen to know they're stronger than either sex realizes, and feisty and sweet and cunning too. They're vulnerable as well, and in my experience, tasty, although it had been a while since I'd indulged in that aspect.

Catherine was no exception, and from the minute I'd reached her belly button to this sweet moment I knew I was in serious, serious trouble. There's a term for this sort of infatuation—a demeaning one guys throw at each other when they suspect one of their group is bewitched in this fashion: pussywhipped.

Yep. All I knew was that any man alive would kill to be where I was at this moment, and by the pounding pulse and hard throb of my cock, life was very, very good. I bent to lick, and the first warm taste of Catherine—tart, tender and musky—had me fighting not to come right there.

Caught between her needs and mine; but the choice was easy. I could wait, and Catherine . . . Catherine deserved whatever pleasure I could give her. I hadn't lied; making love to her this way was something I'd looked forward to ever since seeing her naked that first time.

Oral sex is a matter of trust; almost more so than full-on sex, and I wanted Catherine to trust me, so I concentrated and went slow, enjoying the taste of her very much. I could tell from her little gasps and quivers when I was doing something right, and pretty quickly she was winding her fingers in my hair and moaning my name, which was a hell of an ego booster, let me tell you.

Then I shifted a little, flicked my tongue a certain way, and the sweet sound of Catherine Collette Willows yowling happily was enough to bring a very concerned Ted running in, ready to attack whatever monster was making that noise. I would have shooed him out again, but I was sort of seriously preoccupied with concentrating on my own self-control, which wasn't very good at ALL.

By the time Catherine let go of my hair a few moments later, Ted was forgotten, and I had a great line of sight right up the beautiful planes of her body, complete with flushed chest and highly perky nipples. She looked down at me, big blue eyes dark with lust—lust!-- and growled.

"Sex—NOW."

Who am I to argue with an authority figure? I managed to get my slacks undone, astounded when Catherine used her insoles to push them off my hips, but then she was pulling my torso to hers, kissing me and I was too damned thrilled to worry about anything else at the moment.

A sweet and utterly naughty stream of imperative profanity came from her; orders of a direct and very Anglo-Saxon nature, if you get my drift, and all of it drove me nuts. This was the stuff of good male fantasy: being ordered to screw. I hate to boil sexuality to the bare bones that way, but honestly, that's precisely what drives the libido of the average human male—the honest heat of immediate lust in a beautiful woman.

Trust me on this, it's true, and with Catherine growling hot little four letter words in my ear as I took her, I was headed past atomic and well into nuclear overload. Catherine locked her legs somewhere around my ribcage, dug her nails into my flanks and that was about all it took for me to leave planet Earth.

Sex and space—God knows why those are always linked for me, but maybe it has something to do with weightless pleasure and lightheadedness along with massive release. Go figure.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure I was dead weight on her for a while there, but I was too drained, literally and figuratively to move for a bit. Catherine felt terrific under me, damp and firm, cushiony enough for me to enjoy. I turned my head to breathe in her ear and she smiled, eyes still closed as she murmured, "You like dirty talk."

"So do you," I pointed out, nosing against her cheek, "Pretty rough language there, C. C."

"Mmmm—" she murmured, not agreeing, not disagreeing; just a little smug. It dawned on me that a satisfied Catherine Willows is downright adorable in her own way. Then she opened her eyes and looked at me, and right then I knew I was a goner.

Big baby blues looking at me as if I was the greatest man on the planet, and I tell you, I would have taken on armies for that woman at that moment. I felt it in my throat, my stomach and my eyes, so to make the most of it I kissed her. Not gentle either—I wanted her to feel what I was feeling. She kissed back, and when we both stopped to breathe, it was very good.

Then, I started hurting. Overexertion I guess, and as the endorphins began to ebb away I could feel some serious aching in my gut, but rather than let go of Catherine I took her hand and used it to rub my stomach. She got this guilty look but didn't say anything when I shook my head at her. "Not your fault, and it's not that bad."

"I pushed you into it—" Catherine began, and I couldn't help grinning.

"And pulled and clawed, too. Personally, I think you're part cougar or something."

She hit my shoulder, but gently, and giggled. I lay back and pulled her to my side. Once she was settled in and we were as comfortable as two semi-dressed sated sex fiends could get, I kissed her temple. Catherine looked up at me and I nodded.

"Now . . . let's talk."

It took a while, but after a while, I knew things. I found out about how Catherine Flynn had become Catherine Willows. I heard about stripping, and a coke habit, and a mentor named Jimmy Tadero, who got her into college and into Criminal Justice.

I liked hearing about the stripping, but the more I learned about Eddie Willows, the gladder I was that I never met the man. Catherine gave me the short version, but there were clues in her hesitant phrasing that led me to believe that life with her ex had been more of a struggle than she wanted to admit, even years later, and I didn't push.

God knew I had enough of my own sins to reveal.

I murmured in all the right places, and let her unburden herself as we lay there and watched the sun set out beyond the window. Heard about Lindsay, who sounded right on track for a teenage daughter, and about the late, notorious Sam Braun; that one threw me for a loop.

Finally, Catherine wound down, sighing and stroking my chest through my open shirt. "—And I've been dominating the conversation as usual. Feel free to jump in anytime here, Mike—"

"Just taking it all in," I told her honestly. "Did you ever stop to think what an amazing life you've had? It's like a novel of sorts."

"More like a soap opera," came her little wail. "Honestly, Mike—I BLEW UP my workplace! I found out this family friend was not only a murderer but also my father! I dragged my kid to the morgue for Show and Tell! What kind of a woman does those things?"

_The kind of woman I could fall in love with_, I thought, but I couldn't quite say it, so I kissed her temple again. "The kind who isn't afraid to live, Catherine. You've done more of that in the last year than I have in the previous decade."

"And between you and me, regretted about half of it, no matter what I say" she sighed with a grumble. "I have a doctorate in the school of hard knocks."

"Makes you all the more a woman to be reckoned with, in my book. A survivor. I've wasted a lot of time running from my past. Hell, you and I both know it killed me, and this second chance is more than I deserve. You're brave. Me? I'm just lucky."


	10. Chapter 10

CATHERINE

I held back my comment right then—after all, how could Mike consider himself lucky? He'd lost the woman he loved and committed a murder in her revenge that wasn't what he thought it was, he'd lived for years with the blackmail of Frank McCarty, and been SHOT when he tried to make things right. How the hell could anyone call that lucky?

Then I looked into his eyes, and this hot warm feeling rushed up from the pit of my stomach, and all I could say was "oh."

Mike sighed and pulled me closer to him; God how I loved that big fuzzy chest of his! He started talking then, and even though I already had the bare bones of what he'd gone through, I got a lot of the picture filled in.

Heard about Amy. If I was younger it would have hurt, listening to Mike unburden himself, and I won't lie—I did have a pang or two. But then again, Mike hearing about Eddie had probably been uncomfortable for him too, so I stayed quiet.

Did I mention I really loved the sound of Mike's voice, especially when my head was on his chest? That deep rumbling tone . . . .

Anyway, he talked about his life and I listened, encouraging him with a murmur or a question in all the right places. When he got to the murder of Amy's supposed killer I hugged him a bit tighter. Mike's voice thickened up, and I felt his tension all through his body.

"I knew Cath, somewhere deep down I knew that punk didn't have a damned thing to do with Amy's death, but I didn't want to admit it to myself. When I went back to Frank and handed him the gun the pact was made. Before, we'd been two men grieving and after that, every damn thing was tainted between us. I left Trenton for Philly, then Baltimore then here, trying to get further and further away from all of it, but I know now, you can't outrun the truth."

"Mike . . . " I spoke very carefully now, knowing a single wrong word would probably make him pull back. " . . . You were used. You were used by someone you loved, and it's hard to face up to that, even with the evidence in front of you. Frank blackmailed you, but in the end you beat him. You told the truth and exposed him and his cronies for what they were . . . and I believe Amy would have been proud of you. Hell, I know she would have been, just like I am."

He didn't say anything for a long time, but from the way he was shaking in my arms I knew. I let him bury his face against the side of my throat and held Mike close, feeling an overwhelming mix of emotions as his tears burned on my skin. He was so big, and at the same time, so wounded. So tired.

That was when the 'possibly' changed to 'definitely'.

Definitely in love with Mike.

We fell asleep, and by the time I woke up again, it was pitch dark. I made a rough guess that it was about midnight. Next to me Mike was out, a faint snore coming from that pointed nose of his. I eased out of bed and went to the bathroom.

When I came back Mike hadn't moved, and I looked at him lying there, dead to the world. Just the sight of him relaxed and vulnerable had me feeling horny again, so I carefully shifted myself until I could get a nice close up view of his hips.

Yes, Mike was worth looking at, and I'm a woman who's seen plenty of naked men. I reached over and stroked my hand along his shaft, glad that my palms were warm and didn't startle him. Mike shifted a little, but not enough to wake up, so I decided to keep touching him up, having fun in seeing his body respond to me so darned happily.

Sheesh, men and their dicks, I tell you—

Anyway, having a chance to get up close and personal with Mr. Twenty there was sort of fun. There's angry sex and lustful sex and romantic sex, but it had been a long, long time since I had just . . . playful sex. FUN sex, if you will. So I tickled and teased, moving lightly enough to make sure he felt it, but not enough to really wake him up, and talk about your growth spurt . . . apparently Mike's anatomy was delighted to respond to any caressing I was doing.

A few licks, and suddenly I had quite a handful; warm and happy, so I shamelessly took oral advantage of that. The long, heartfelt groan I heard when I did so was all the applause I needed--a standing ovation if you will, and a heck of a lot of fun. I'm not saying I could accommodate a lot of Mike, but what I could handle I definitely enjoyed, and so, apparently, did he.

"Ohgodddddd . . . I don't wanna wake up—" he moaned in a voice thick with sleep and lust, which made me giggle which was tough to do considering where my mouth was. I shifted a little, and pulled away for a moment to look up at him; Mike actually pouted for a second, his lower lip jutting out a tiny bit. I squeezed his shaft lightly.

"Rise and shine—"

"Risen. Shining not on the agenda," he rumbled, a nice little pleading note in his deep voice, so I went back to working him over. I could have dragged it out for a good long time; I know a few tricks, and figured maybe later I'd show Mike what REAL torture was like, but this was more of a morning for just playing nice, so I did.

Apparently I was more than just nice, because a few minutes later, the sweet and desperate sounds of Mike going right over the edge more than made up for having to deal with the slightly messy results. I got even though—wiped my lips on his thigh as I kissed my way up his still quivering body and stretched out on top of him in my best possessive manner.

He was looking at me in a way that was just too much, and I blinked hard, trying to keep from tearing up. I smiled—or tried too, and Mike gave a low laugh.

"I—"

I put a hand over his mouth. "---Shhhhhh. I had fun too."

He twisted away from my fingers. "That's not what I was going to say."

I sighed. "Let's just say I know what you're going to say, and since it's sort of mutual, we can talk about it later, and just not say it right now?"

He looked at me for a long moment, not speaking, and I held my breath, hoping I hadn't totally destroyed the moment. The truth was that the only time Eddie ever said he loved me was after sex, and I just didn't want things to go with way with Mike.

"Mutual?" he asked, quietly and carefully. I nodded. Mike gave this long, low sigh and cupped my face in his big hands. I wasn't quite ready for his next move, but it was so gentle and sweet and so . . . him.

He kissed my forehead.

"This new life . . . . is really good, Catherine—" Mike murmured. " . . . thanks for giving it to me."

MIKE

She loves me.

This is a whole new ballgame, yes it is. This puts a very different focus on the future; a more expansive outlook on things. If I'm reading Catherine right, then what we've got has potential, and for the first time in a long, long time, I'm looking forward, instead of backward.

She loves me, and I love her too. Not just a physical thing—although that definitely has a rich and powerful part in this—but the whole package. Brains, sense of humor, practicality, history, frailties: there's so much to this woman that I want to spend years getting to know her better, and if it sounds like I'm rushing into things, then yeah, maybe I am.

But damn it, I've got a lot of lost time to make up for too, and so I don't say anything as we fall asleep again.

Around seven, I let a very frantic Ted outside, shower and made coffee. There were some eggs, so I scrambled those, and looked around for catsup when Catherine came wandering in, clutching a towel around herself. Her hair was still wet, and for the first time I saw exactly how freckly she is.

Gorgeous, but very freckly.

"Coffee---" came her little hoarse demand and I poured her a cup.

I might have made it too strong; she gave a little whimper and set her mug down quickly. "Whoah."

"I like java that rhymes with lava."

"Apparently. Hot and dangerous are just your style," she grinned at me and I felt myself go red. I sat across from her at the table, wondering how best to mention what Ditmeyer had offered, but she beat me to it.

"Mike--what is it?"

"Ditmeyer's found me a place," I told her gently, watching her face. Catherine nodded, but I noticed her bare shoulders tense when she leaned forward.

"That fast. Wow. That's, um—that's good, right? Where?" she asked quietly.

"I had a couple of choices, but I think I'm going to go with Hawthorne."

"Hawthorne . . . and that's . . . ?"

"Two hundred miles north of here. He says they're in the market for a CSI to run the local lab up there."

Catherine looked thoughtful, and I swear I could see the cogs and gears of her thinking swirling around, lubricated by coffee. She took in a deep breath, which loosened up her towel. "Hawthorne. Is it what you want?"

I looked at her and smiled. "It will do for now. It's in state, it's small and I can get to work right away. I can keep Ted, and it's close enough that you and I . . . if there's going to be a you and I . . . can work things out. Right?"

"Right." She blurted back, making me feel a whole lot better. I reached over for her hand and squeezed it lightly, then let go.

I wasn't going to push.

"Anyway," I added lightly, "What do you think?"

"What do I think? I think it's good," she told me, nodding slowly. "Of course, you're going to need a much better wardrobe though."

I looked at her and she grinned, shaking her head. "Oh come on—black suits are NOT going to cut it for the sort of cases you're going to be called on, Mike. You're going to be working in high desert country, so you're going to need boots, and you'd be better off in jeans or khakis and maybe a sweater in the winter. And a hat if you burn like I do."

"A hat?" I asked, a little confused. She nodded.

"Yeah, and not one like Grissom's weird mesh Panama either. Maybe a baseball cap."

"Kinda casual," I pointed out, but she shrugged, which also loosened up the towel. This breakfast was going very well, I decided.

"Up to you—the dress shirts are fine, although I'd love to get you something with more color to it. Honestly, in little town like Hawthorne, a suit—especially a black one-- is going to look . . . stuffy."

And that's how we ended up shopping in a mall a few hours later.

I've been lucky enough to stay roughly the same size for the past eight years, so when I reeled off my stats to Catherine she just nodded and zoomed in on what fit. We were in a shop called Zane's—a little more western than I was comfortable with, but nothing Catherine brought to me was overtly cowboy, per se.

The jeans fit. Catherine seemed to like them, judging from her hot little look of approval, so we picked up six pairs, and she told me to start breaking them in. I wore a pair out of the store, my black slacks folded up neatly in the bag with the other pairs. Next stop was a shoe store.

I didn't see anything immediately appealing, and told Catherine so. She agreed, and we crossed the mall to another store. I found a pair of basic black work boots in my size right away. Not bad—at least I wouldn't be losing traction anytime soon. Catherine advised me to start wearing those as well, so we clomped out fifteen minutes later and found a bench near one of the fancy fountains. I felt a little self-conscious in my new stuff, but it helped that she kept smiling at me.

"Looking good," she murmured, leaning against me. I shot her a glance as I wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"CC . . . how far is this going to go?" I asked her suddenly. People walked all around us, and the muted sounds of music and conversation were everywhere. I could smell pretzels and donuts and perfume in the air while I watched her look up at me with those big blue eyes of hers.

CATHERINE

"Far," I blurted out, and then felt stupid doing it. That wasn't an answer, but I wasn't really sure what the question was, either. I mean I had an idea that Mike was talking about the two of us, and that whole concept was still kind of new.

Didn't mean I didn't want to give it a shot, though. He was looking at me so I gave a little nod and spoke up again. "Look, right now is . . . incredible, at least for me, okay? You're funny and sweet and smart, Mike. You make me incredibly happy."

"Good," he told me quietly. He didn't smile, but the way he was looking at me felt like a kiss; very intimate. I had a fluttery stomach all over again. In my mind I thought of a million different things all in a high speed sort of move: Telling Lindsay and mom, long weekends together, holidays, fighting, feeding him breakfast in bed, vacations, God help me, leaving Vegas---

All for this man I'd barely known for half a year, if that.

But then again, I'd known Sam all my life, and look how things had turned out with him . . . all it confirmed for me was that life was a crapshoot, and in a town like Vegas, you have to take a chance. I took Mike's hand and gave it a hard squeeze, loving the feel of the heat, the warm reality of his slightly callused grip in mine.

"How far do you want it to go, Mike?"

I had to know. Even if it hurt, I had to know.

Then he did smile; started with his eyes and spread down his face in a slow, strong wave that sort of picked me up with it. He brought my hand up to his mouth and kissed it—corny, but I told you, I'm a sucker for some of those cliché gestures. Then his voice rumbled out and finished the job.

"Me? I want us to go all the way to the end of the road, Catherine."

Epilog

So two years later, and there are a lot of things that have changed. Mike went to Hawthorne and fit right into a place that didn't know they needed him until he showed up. He's got a big hulking guy named Barry working the field with him, and a smart tech named Hilly running their lab. Not a big place, but they're all getting the job done for their county, and both Bar and Hilly have been down for training here in Vegas.

Mike found a nice turn of the century two-story house with a great view of Walker Lake. He and Ted have renovated it over time, with help from yours truly on the weekends and holidays. After about the third week into his move and after all the commuting, I finally got up the courage to tell mom and Lindsay about him, and both rolled their eyes at me.

Remind me to tell you the story of our first dinner out together—dear God, was that . . . . interesting. To this day I can't say the words 'steak sauce' without Lindsay busting out into giggles, the little brat. But it all worked out, and once all the suspicion died down all three of them got along and still do. Mom thinks Mike looks hot with a goatee, and Lindsay can't believe a grown man plays the clarinet.

Anyway. So at first I was terrified the distance was going to wreck everything—Hawthorne may be up the road, but Nevada's still a damned big state, and I'm getting too set in my ways to drive it every weekend. Then I got a call from Mike to go to the North Las Vegas Airport, and he shows up in a Cessna.

Flying lessons.

He got a private pilot's license within the first four months in Hawthorn, and that meant he was only twenty minutes away. Then Mike wanted ME to take them!

So I did. Long story short, we've put a lot of air travel into our commute time in the last twenty-four months, and has it been worth it?

Oh yesssssss.

MIKE

Life is good. I've gotten a second chance at getting it right, and so far things have been exponentially better than my first time around. Ditmeyer's been pushing me to finish up my Master's in psychology so I can qualify for Quantico, and so far I've been on track about getting my semesters moving along.

Hawthorne wasn't bad once I learned about rattlesnakes and raccoons and small town politics. Fortunately, Bar and Hilly are the best team I could ask for, and with Catherine coming up regularly, I had the job down. Even Ted likes Hawthorne, and still rounds up what lizards he can find, nutso dog.

As for me and C. C., well, that's pretty solid too. Once she saw I was serious about it, she followed through just as intently, and while I'm not one to kiss and tell, we've been pretty hard on beds.

And sofas.

And dinettes and washing machines and I can't really get into what happened to the felt on my pool table, but it's a small price to pay to insure my sweetheart's satisfaction.

Last year I got her a ring, and this year, once Lindsay graduates, we're getting married.

She's invited Grissom, Sidle, Stokes, Warrick and Brass to the wedding---

--This is gonna be good.

END


End file.
